Austin. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play the jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and men.
Menteith. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he!
Austin. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our day. Help me off with this. (Menteith takes off Austin’s dressing-gown; Austin passes R. to dressing-table, and takes up first cravat.)
Austin. Will the hair do, Menteith?
Menteith. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (Austin proceeds to wind first cravat. A bell: exit Menteith. Austin drops first cravat in basket and takes second.)
Austin (winding and singing)—
‘I’d crowns resign
To call her mine,
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
(Second cravat a failure. Re-enter Menteith with card.) Fenwick? of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don’t know the gentleman. (Lays down card, and takes up third cravat.) Send him away with every consideration.
Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George. (He goes out. Third cravat a success. Re-enter Menteith.) He says, Mr. George, that he has an errand from Miss Musgrave.
Austin (with waistcoat). Show him in, Menteith, at once. (Singing and fitting waistcoat at glass)—