T. (nodding). I can’t refuse, and I’ve done my duty by St. Nicholas. Yet ’tis sad to miss any of this play. I will go, and be back in a trice. (Passing the cupboard, to N.) Thou silly! he’ll never mind thee.
N. Curse you, Tristram!
T. Hush thee, my babe. [Exit.
G. (walks about restlessly).
The man’s as strange as his master. How Diana
Can trust her affairs to one so wholly unfit,
So unmethodical! And what discomfort
The fellow lives in. The room in such disorder:
He might be going away for good. Two such
Immense portmanteaux. What’s all that for now?