Colts, (to Lord B.). These 'ere togs belong to you now, young feller, and I reckon exchange ain't no robbery.
Lord B. (with emotion, to Countess). Mother, can you endure to behold your son in tights and spangles on the very day of his majority?
Countess (coldly). On the contrary, it is my wish to see him attired as soon as possible, in a more appropriate costume.
Lord B. (to Lady R.). Rose, you, at least, have not changed? Tell me you will love me still—even on the precarious summit of an acrobat's pole!
Lady Rose (scornfully). Really the presumptuous familiarity of the lower orders is perfectly appalling!
The Earl (to Countess, as Lord B. and Coltsfoot retire to exchange costumes). At last, Pauline, I understand why I could never feel towards Bullsaye the affection of a parent. Often have I reproached myself for a coldness I could not overcome.
Countess. And I too! Nature was too strong for us. But, oh, the joy of recovering our son—of finding him so strong, so supple, so agile. Never yet has our line boasted an heir who can feed himself from a fork strapped on to his dexter heel!
The E. (with emotion). Our beloved, boneless boy!
[Re-enter Coltsfoot in modern dress, and Lord B. in tights.
Colts. Don't I look slap-up—O.K. and no mistake? Oh, I am 'aving a beano!