Hal, how are you?
BULLER.
How are you, Marmy?
NORTH.
On the Stage—in the Theatre of Fictitious Life—such a Meeting as this would require explanation—but in the Drama of Real Life, on the Banks of Lochawe, it needs none. Friends of my soul! you will come to understand it all in two minutes' talk with your Progeny. Progeny—welcome for your Sires' sakes—and your Lady Mothers'—and your own—to Lochawe-side. I see you are two Trumps. Volusene—Woodburn—from your faces all well at home. Come, my two old Bucks—let us Three, to be out of the bustle, retire to the Inn. Did you ever see Christopher fling the Crutch? There—I knew it would clear the Sycamore Grove.
Scene II.—Interior of the Pavilion.
Time—Two P.M.
North—Seward—Buller.
SEWARD.
Still at his Siesta in his Swing-Chair. Few faces bear to be looked on asleep.
BULLER.
Men's faces.