Menteith. Quite so, madam.
Miss Foster. And are we soon to see our princely guest, Menteith?
Menteith. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite so. Mr. George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles (looking at his watch) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes from now. Such, madam, is Mr. George’s order of the day.
Barbara. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really to see one of His Majesty’s own brothers? That will be pure! O madam, this is better than Carlisle.
Miss Foster. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith.
Menteith. Eh? Quite so, madam.
Miss Foster. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as you, my good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining.
Menteith. Yes, madam, indeed; in these distinguished circles life is but a slavery. None of the best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr. George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you’ll excuse my plainness, madam) are in a manner of speaking identified; and indeed it was the Dook’s desire alone that brought us here.
Barbara. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that?
Menteith. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be charmed to find himself (bowing) among so many admired members of his own set.