Mr. Kosts (blankly). Theoretically, your Grace; theoretically.
The Duke (haughtily). Any relative of the Duchess can reduce theory to practice.
Mr. Kosts (bowing). No doubt, your Grace; no doubt.
The Duke. Well, as I now find that Charley can do the work I have hitherto given to you, Mr. Kosts, I feel that some alteration must be made. Charley is poor, and my relative. So I am sure you will not be offended when for the future I give him the whole of the legal work I used to give to you. You see, after all (as you explained to me just now) it is purely a matter of business!
[Scene closes in upon Mr. Kosts’ discomfiture.
Police Tyranny.—Policeman (to obtrusive tramp). “Now then, what d’ye mean by shoving yourself in before these poor people out o’ your turn? You stand back or—(thinking deeply)—you shall have such a wash!!”
