Old Woman. Deary me!
Nurse. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny!
Old W. Deary me!
Nurse. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks—and such like—now it's anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with him—for put up with his going's on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a horrid life, ain't it, child?
Old W. 'Orrid—deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to go?
Nurse. Aye, child—the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk, which'll please him—and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have charity upon him—if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go if he know'd it—still he hasn't a copper coin—he's as cunning as any fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child!
Old W. Deary me!—at this time of day—but I do feel a sinking!
Nurse. It'll do you a world of good. [Getting bottle—a knock.] Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [Knock again.]
Old W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell.
Nurse. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [Opens door.]