SHARP. I've _a_ppropriated a pie--_w_eal and _h_am, which is now in a '_a_mper _o_utside, along with all the ingredients for a bowl of punch, except the hot water. ARABEL. Oh, I can soon manage that, by lighting the fire. PHOEBE. (_starting--aside_) Oh, lud! Poor Trip will be roasted alive! (_aloud and very quickly_) You needn't light the fire; I'll run for some hot water, and be back immediately. Don't light the fire on any account. _Hastily runs out L. door._ ARABEL. The water ought to be quite hot--oughtn't it, Mr. Sharp? SHARP. Biling! ARABEL. Then perhaps you'll put a light to the fire; it's all ready laid. Where have I put the lucifer matches? (_looking on the table, and tossing the things about_) Perhaps they're in my bed room. _Goes out at R. 2 E._ SHARP. (_finding the box of matches on the table_) Here they are, Miss Arabella! (_goes to fireplace, kneels down, strikes a light, and applies it--the fire suddenly lights--immediately a loud shouting, &c., heard from chimney, and TRIPTOLEMUS comes down with a run into the grate_) Help! thieves! murder! (_roaring with fright, and rushing wildly off at L. 3 E._) _At the same moment, ARABELLA runs in alarmed from R. 2 E._ ARABEL. Mercy on me! what is the matter? (_TRIPTOLEMUS scrambles out of the grate, staggers forward, and falls helplessly on a chair, which is covered with white or light coloured chintz--ARABELLA runs behind the table, exclaiming "Ah!"--TRIPTOLEMUS'S face and hands are still blackened, and his coat is ripped up to the collar behind_) Who are you?--why don't you speak? Who let you up here, sir? TRIPTOLE. (_in a plaintive tone_) Nobody let me up; I let myself down. ARABEL. What do you want, sir? TRIPTOLE. A basin of water, a cake of soap, and a clean towel. (_rising, and approaching her--the chair appears all blackened_) ARABEL. Leave this room this moment. TRIPTOLE. (_aside_) With a sanguinary vampire and an infuriated uncle ready to pounce upon me; not if I know it. (_aside_) Leave this room--and this room _a_ room with _you_ in it. (_aside_) I'll flatter her a bit. (_aloud_) You--you that for three long years I have enshrined in the very innermost interstices of this heart! Leave you--you!--pooh, pooh! ARABEL. Your face is not familiar to me! TRIPTOLE. How can you possibly tell till I've washed it? ARABEL. Once more, young man, I beg you'll beat a retreat. TRIPTOLE. (_pretending great emotion_) It's too much--it's too much! (_feeling for his handkerchief in both his coat pockets, one after the other_) Allow me. (_taking ARABELLA'S handkerchief out of her hand--wipes his eyes, and then his face with it, and returns it, all smudged with black, to ARABELLA_) Thank you! ARABEL. Sir, when I tell you that I am every moment expecting an arrival---- TRIPTOLE. A rival? ARABEL. An arrival. TRIPTOLE. Ann who? ARABEL. Pshaw! TRIPTOLE. I don't know her.