QUIN. A bit of toast, Mr. Cibber? (goes to table.)
CIB. Jemmy, you are a brute.
QUIN. You refuse, Sir?
CIB. (with dignity). No, Sir, I accept.
(Quin takes plate of toast to table, R.)
POM. (goes to table). You Antediluvians must not flatter yourselves you have monopolized iniquity, or that the deluge washed away intrigue, and that a rake is a fossil. We are still as vicious as you could desire, Mr. Cibber. What if I bet a cool hundred round that Vane has a petticoat in the next room, and Mrs. Woffington shall bring her out.
VANE. Pomander! (checks himself) but we all know Pomander.
POM. Not yet, but you shall. Now don’t look so abominably innocent, my dear fellow, I ran her to earth in this house not ten minutes ago.
CIB. Have her out, Peggy! I know the run—there’s the cover—Hark forward! Yoicks! Ha, ha, ha! (coughing) Ho, ho!