MARL. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too. MISS HARD. Nectar! nectar! that's a liquor there's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We keep no French wines here, sir. MARL. Of true English growth, I assure you. MISS HARD. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years. MARL. Eighteen years? Why, one would think, child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you? MISS HARD. O! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated. MARL. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty. (_Approaching._) Yet, nearer, I don't think so much. (_Approaching._) By coming close to some women they look younger still; but when we come very close indeed—— _Attempting to kiss her._ MISS HARD. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one's age as they do horses, by mark of mouth. MARL. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can be ever acquainted? MISS HARD. And who wants to be acquainted with you? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here a while ago, in this obstropalous manner. I'll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a justice of peace. MARL. (_Aside._) Egad! she has hit it, sure enough. (_To her._) In awe of her, child? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward, squinting thing; no, no. I find you don't know me. I laughed, and rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, _curse me_! MISS HARD. O! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies. MARL. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to follow. At the ladies' club in town, I'm called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons. Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. _Offering to salute her._ [Illustration: MARLOW.—"_And why not now, my angel?_"—_p._ 356. ] MISS HARD. Hold, sir; you were introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a favourite there, you say? MARL. Yes, my dear; there's Mrs. Mantrap, lady Betty Blackleg, the countess of Sligo, Mrs. Longhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. MISS HARD. Then it's a very merry place, I suppose. MARL. Yes; as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and old women, can make us. MISS HARD. And their agreeable Rattle; ha! ha! ha! MARL. (_Aside._) Egad! I don't quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child!