“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in a loud voice which attracted general notice. “Pray excuse the liberty I take in addressing you, but I admire the style of your cloak so much that I would fain ask the name of your tailor.” In spite of the audible tittering of fine ladies and the delighted guffaws of gallant gentlemen, the playwright showed the perfect unconcern of one who has his own private standard of men and things. He did not reply, but quietly looked the impertinent coxcomb up and down as if he were a new species of animal with whom he was not yet acquainted. The fop was nettled by this nonchalance. “Well, sir?” he said impudently. “Give me your tailor’s name I pray you, in order that I may have the great felicity of taking the air in a cloak exactly its fellow.” The playwright shook his head with an air of polite deprecation. “I have too kindly a feeling toward an honest craftsman,” he said. “God’s death, sir! what do you mean?” “I mean, sir,” said the player, “that I would not like so good a fellow to run the double risk of a bad debt and an even worse advertisement.” A roar of laughter followed from those who had gathered at the pleasant prospect of a little player-baiting by an accredited wag. Many there were about the Court who were by no means well-disposed toward players in general. These actors were claiming far too much attention from those in high places. Their continually growing favor was beginning to be a matter of concern to those whose own existence depended so largely on the indulgence of the great. But the fop was completely taken aback by the player’s rejoinder. For the moment he did not know how to reply. He had not expected to be held up to ridicule in that place of all others by an humble individual who had not the least pretensions to fashion. But the laugh had gone against him heavily. And being in reality a dull and commonplace fellow enough, in the end he took refuge in round abuse of “those common jays who would peacock it among their betters.” “Pray, my lord, on what ground do you hold yourself to be the superior of this gentleman?” suddenly interposed a harsh and imperious voice. It was the voice of the Queen. The group of gallants and fine ladies had been too much occupied with the sport that was afoot to notice who it was who had come into their midst. My lord’s confusion was great. And it was not made less by the look of sour disdain which animated the features of his sovereign. This old raddled woman in farcical clothes and an auburn wig was by no means a fool. She had lived too long in the world and had mingled too freely with the very best the age had to give not to be an uncommonly shrewd judge of things and men. She had the rough commonsense which is a far better equipment than subtlety when it comes to dealings with human nature. “Well, my lord, on what grounds I ask you?” “On the ground of birth, your grace,” said the fop, who by now had time to collect himself a little.