CLOWN. It's carrying round London by this time. You know Sir Jeffrey Rake?

EGLANTINE. I think so.

CLOWN. Yes, don't you. You lost enough to him last night.

EGLANTINE. I did.

CLOWN. He's been this year past, it seems, sweethearting ... and a bit more ... with a famous lady of fashion here in town. But he'd not a penny, and she'd ten thousand pounds of debts. So marry they couldn't till she hit on a plan.

EGLANTINE. Indeed?

CLOWN. A fine lady's plan. She was to cozen some wealthy fop and swear to marry him if he'd pay those debts of hers. D'you mark that?

EGLANTINE. I mark it.

CLOWN. There's more to come. The night before the wedding was to be ...

last night as ever was ... if Sir Jeffrey didn't win at cards a cool fifteen thousand from the same poor fool. And this very morning, off have the precious couple gone! Married by this, begad they are; he with his pockets lined, she free of her Jews. It'll be all over town in an hour. And the fool fop is dressing for his wedding! Now did ever you hear the like of that?

[There is silence in the other room.

I say, did ever you hear the like of that? Is your master there, Quin?

HARLEQUIN. [Who is pa.s.sing in and out.] To some extent he is, Sir George.

CLOWN. Gad, let me think a minute ... though the wine's in my head.

What sum did you lose to Sir Jeffrey last night? Your bride's name was Clarissa.... I heard it. And Clarissa Mordaunt's the name of that fine lady. Odds, Bobs and b.u.t.tons! You're not the fool fop, Eglantine, are you?

[Is it Eglantine who enters? There stands something for a moment a dead thing dressed in a bridegroom's splendour. It is as if some ice-cold hand had plucked at his heart. Yet he is calm; the poise remains true, the subtle artifice is there. But the crushing blow to his pride is in his pale face, and his voice rings bitterly when he says:

EGLANTINE. I was.

CLOWN. I'm sorry. I might have guessed. I mean, of course I couldn't have guessed ... that any man would be such a fool ... I mean ... oh, gad, I...

ALICE. He never opens his mouth but he puts his foot in it. That's what he's trying to say.

CLOWN. But there's time yet. Old Talon can't have paid the money to her lawyers by this. Jeffrey Rake boasted too soon. I'll run to stop it.

EGLANTINE. Pray, do nothing of the sort, George.

CLOWN. But I will. An't I your friend? What's the address?

EGLANTINE. My pistol, Quin.

[The pistol is in his hand.

CLOWN. And the fifteen thousand Rake won. Hold it back. We'll call him out and do for him ... one of us.

EGLANTINE. Must I go so far as to shoot you in the leg, my dear George, to convince you that it will be an errand ill run ... that they are welcome to their gains ... that I count myself well rid of them.

CLOWN. Oh! You don't count on my not telling the story, do you?

EGLANTINE. Though I shot you as dead as mutton, every joint would squeak it, I feel sure.

CLOWN. Oh!

EGLANTINE. Quin; the door.

CLOWN. Oh!

[Still he stands, grinning there.

EGLANTINE. George, we are keeping my servant in a draught.

[Clown waddles out. Harlequin vanishes too. He is back in a moment to find Eglantine sunk in the chair facing the mirror to see--finery! And what else?

Quin. In the gla.s.s there ... is that Eglantine?

HARLEQUIN. Till this moment your lordship has been pleased to think so.

EGLANTINE. The country girl that sang. I had her sent away.

HARLEQUIN. Since the song caused your lordship some discomfort.

EGLANTINE. Stop her before she goes. [He takes the parchment from the table.] Stay, give me pen and ink. This is for her when the name is altered. Her home I think you said....

[Harlequin vanishes again. Eglantine most carefully erases the name and writes in the other. Then he rises, pistol in hand, and faces himself in mirror, looks himself full in the face.

And now, Lord Eglantine, since you are he! Peg for clothes, scribbler of epigrams, now to end and for ever your tailor's dream.

[And he fires. But he doesn't fall. Instead, the mirror cracks and a puff of smoke comes from it. Alice must not interrupt the story or she would; and she aches to, because she always fears the audience may not grasp the point. Lord Eglantine was a reflection of his tim the polished mirror of his age. Until he blew the reflection into smithereens, he had no soul, no reality. A wig, a box of patches, snuff, silk, lace, a clouded cane, a neat sense for words, that was Eglantine, and now he has become, in all humility, a man. Back comes Harlequin to find him.

HARLEQUIN. My lord!

EGLANTINE. A slight accident.

HARLEQUIN. The noise has wakened our neighbours.

EGLANTINE. On my honour it has wakened me.

HARLEQUIN. Richardson!

[Columbine appears.

Kindly pick up his lordship's pieces.

[She has her little dust-pan and brush, and most neatly she does so.

Eglantine--a new Eglantine--watches her, and the thought of a new life is born in him.