Chris. (looking round.) Dear, dear, what a nice, sweet, pretty place! Well, I declare when travellers used to talk of their fine sights, I used to wink and nod, as much as to say, I believe it's all bounce. But when I go back, and describe that object (pointing to the abbey in the distance) and this object (turning round, and running against Oliver)—Sir, I beg pardon for calling you an object. But you see I am just come from the woods, Sir—from the woods about six leagues off, Sir, where I was hawking with my lord, when he—he—he—od'rabbit it!—Hit or miss, it will be rare sport.
Oliver. What sport? And who are you? (angrily.)
Chris. Why, that's it. I want to know who I am; and perhaps you can tell me. (Gets close to him.) Little Solomon, you see, one of our under falconers, and who has seen all my relations, come t'other day to this town for a basket of provisions for my lord and his hawking-party; and as he was staring about, who shou'd he see ushered into a fine house, and hear being call'd by a fine name, but my aunt Winifred—old Winifred Winbuttle, the housekeeper! Very well—I cou'dn't say or unsay this, you know; so I directly gets leave of my lord to come myself, and stare about; for thinks I, if I am made a fool of, I'm only where I was, you know. (With affected simplicity.)
Oliver. Certainly, or worse; for to suppose I'll stay chattering here about Solomon and Winifred, proves, if not quite, that you are very near an idiot! (going.)
Chris. (taking his arm.) Very—I'm very near an idiot! And yet, do you know, upon my honour, Solomon described every thing!—from aunt Winifred, and her great title, down to the Gothic latch'd gate, and the little twaddling old butler who open'd it: he did—and if I could but once—(looking about)—only just once—(seeing the chateau)—Why that's it! by Solomon's description, that must be the very house, that the gate, and you—he! he! he!—Come, I'm no fool now! Icod, I see who you are.
Oliver (standing before the door.) Dolt, booby! I leave you to your folly! But I would have you know, there are none in this house, none but the marchioness Alberti, the countess of Roland—
Chris. Who?
Oliver. The countess of Roland, and her niece Ulrica; so that's your final answer from the little twaddling old butler. [Exit into the chateau.
Chris. (strutting, &c.) 'Tis she!—Aunt Winifred, by law, takes a countess's title; and I—pshaw! I'm like other great people, I'll take any thing!—Not so—some three score hungry, ragged relations, they'll take possession of that beautiful tenement (pointing to the chateau) and Ulrica—sweet Ulrica—will take possession of this beautiful tenement (himself.) And then—Oh, my dear Christopher! how you do long for the wedding day!