Loveyet. S'death, sir! I tell you I am but two and forty years old: She sha'n't be more than thirty odd, sir, and she shall be ten years younger than I am too.
Trueman. Yes, thirty odd years younger than you are; ha, ha. The exiguity of those legs is a most promising earnest of your future exploits, and demonstrate your agility, virility, salubrity, and amorosity; ha, ha, ha. I can't help laughing to think what a blessed union there will be between August and December; a jolly, buxom, wanton, wishful, plethoric female of thirty odd, to an infirm, decrepit, consumptive, gouty, rheumatic, asthmatic, phlegmatic mortal of near seventy; ha, ha. Exquisitely droll and humourous, upon my erudition. It puts me in mind of a hot bed in a hard winter, surrounded with ice, and made verdant and flourishing only by artificial means.
Loveyet. Pshaw, you're a fool!
Enter Toupee.
Toupee. Pardonnez moy, monsieur. I hope it not be any intrusion; par dieu, I will not frize dat Jantemon à la mode Paris no more, becase he vas fronte me.
Trueman. What's the matter, Mr. Toupee?
Toupee. I vill tella your honare of the fracas. I vas vait on monsieur a—choses, and make ma compliment avec beaucoup de grace, ven monsieur vas read de news papier; so I say, is your honare ready for be dress? De great man say, "No—, d—n de barbare." [In a low voice.] I tell de parsone, sare, I have promise 'pon honare for dress one great man vat is belong to de Congress, 'bout dis time, sans manquer: De ansare vas (excuse moy, monsieur), "go to h-ll, if you be please; I must read 'bout de Constitution." Dis is de ole affair, monsieur, en verité.
Loveyet. Sixty-three, indeed! Heaven forbid! But if I was so old, my constitution is good; age is nothing, the constitution is all,—ugh, ugh, ugh.
Toupee. Sare, you vill give me leaf, vat is dat Constitution?
Loveyet. Hold your prating, you booby.