Isidore. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats—indeed, for people that cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [Picks up paper.] Ah, I see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving Mr. Brummell—to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats! Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr. Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes.
[Enter Brummell, letter in hand. Isidore busies himself piling cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the mirror. Brummell throws himself in the chair before the glass, examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away.
Brummell. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has forgotten them. [Re-reads the letter.] Strange girl this; the only thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I suppose—it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy to see him at dinner to-day.
Isid. Very well, sir. [Aside.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the city! This is a tumble!—I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but——
Brum. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat.
Isid. [handing one]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs——
Brum. I understand, Isidore. We'll see—we'll see; don't disturb me. Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are not moments when I can speak or listen? [Bell rings.] If that be Mr. Fotherby, show him in. [Exit Isidore.] I intend to form that young fellow—there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking. [Enter Fotherby followed by Isidore.] How d'e do, Fotherby?
Fotherby. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir!
Brum. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet?
Fother. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure!