stantly—the health of the suffering angel—every minute particular since I saw him last. (Folds it up.) Who waits there?
Enter a Servant.
Give this to my servant; it is for the mistress of the house where Master Munhaunslet lodges. He must go with it immediately, and wait for an answer.
SERVANT (taking the note).
And bring the answer here, my Lady?
LADY WORRYMORE.
Yes.—No; to the exhibition of antiques in Piccadilly. No, no! to the lecture-room of Mr. Clutterbuck; there will be friends there almost as anxious as myself to hear how the little angel does.
SIR JOHN.
Mr. Clutterbuck must be a superlative critic, indeed, to attract your Ladyship at so anxious a moment as the present.
LADY WORRYMORE.
Have you not heard him? You are incapable of appreciating two lines of our immortal bard, if you have not attended Mr. Clutterbuck.
SIR JOHN.
I am in very truth, then, an ignorant fellow; and so are you, Clermont, I believe.
