Reu. (to Dorothy). Who is this old gentleman?
Dan. I am Dan’l Druce,—no gentleman, but a hard-working blacksmith, very much at your honour’s service. (Looking at him.) I was away when you last come to the village, yet I think I’ve seen your honour’s face.
Reu. It is very like. It is a striking face. I don’t like it myself, but others do, so I yield to the majority. It is a good face.
Dan. I cannot recall where I have seen it.
Reu. It signifieth not—thou wilt have plenty of time to study it,—for thou wilt see it every quarter-day whilst thou livest. Despite its inherent goodliness, it will come to be a face of evil significance to thee, speaking, as it will, of raised rents, rapid distraint, and uncompromising ejection!
Dan. I’m a punctual tenant, sir, and I fear no man. Dorothy, draw this gentleman some ale while I look to his horse.
[Exit.
Reu. And take thy time, for we are very well thus, eh, Dorothy? (Dorothy going.) Nay, do not go. Never heed the ale. I’d rather take a long look at thy pretty face than a long pull at thy village brew. The one is sweet, I know—the other is sour, I’ll swear. Come hither, Dorothy.
Dor. Nay, sir, I——
Reu. I have news to tell thee, Dorothy—thou art a kind of wife of mine, for I have, in a manner, married thee—intellectually and reflectively; or, as one may say, in a mental or moral sense have I married thee. I have, as it were, invented thee as my wife, and the invention is none the less mine because a scurvy mechanic (to wit, the parson) hath not yet hammered in the rivets. (Aside.) A quip!