QUIN. Really this is too bad, the coffee is getting cold (_goes to table, R._). CLIVE. So, no wonder Quin is getting warm--(_gives him coffee_). Here, bear! (_Woffington presides over tea._) CIB. You have a charming house here, Mr. Vane, I knew it in poor dear Lord Loungeville's time. You may just remember him, Sir Charles? POM. I never read ancient history. CIB. Puppy! An unrivalled gallant, Peggy. Oh the _petits soupers_ we have had here! Loungeville was a great creature, Sir Charles. I wish you may ever be like him. POM. I sincerely trust not (_goes to table, C._). I do not feel at all anxious to figure in the museum of town antiquities--labelled, "Old Beau, very curious." CIB. (_aside_). Coxcomb! Let me tell you your old beaux were the only ones worthy of winging the shafts from Cupid's quiver. SNARL. Witness Mr. Cibber (_goes to table, C._). WOFF. Oh, Colley is like old port--the more ancient he grows the more exquisite his perfume becomes. SOAP. Capital! She alludes to Mr. Cibber's pulvilio. SNARL. And the crustier he gets. SOAP. Delicious! He alludes to Mr. Cibber's little irritability. CIB. Ah, laugh at us old fellows as you will, young people; but I have known Loungeville entertain a fine lady in this very saloon, whilst a rival was fretting and fuming on the other side of that door. Ha, ha! (_sighs._) It is all over now. POM. Nay, Mr. Cibber, why assume that the house has lost its virtue in our friend's hands? CIB. Because, young gentleman, you all want _sçavoir faire;_ the fellows of the day are all either unprincipled heathens like you, or cold blooded Amadisses like our host. The true _Preux des Dames_ (_regretfully_) went out with the full periwig, stap my vitals! QUIN. A bit of toast, Mr. Cibber? (_goes to table._) CIB. Jemmy, you are a brute. QUIN. You refuse, Sir? CIB. (_with dignity_). No, Sir, I accept. (_Quin takes plate of toast to table, R._) POM. (_goes to table_). You Antediluvians must not flatter yourselves you have monopolized iniquity, or that the deluge washed away intrigue, and that a rake is a fossil. We are still as vicious as you could desire, Mr. Cibber. What if I bet a cool hundred round that Vane has a petticoat in the next room, and Mrs. Woffington shall bring her out. VANE. Pomander! (_checks himself_) but we all know Pomander. POM. Not yet, _but you shall._ Now don't look so abominably innocent, my dear fellow, I ran her to earth in this house not ten minutes ago. CIB. Have her out, Peggy! I know the run--there's the cover--Hark forward! Yoicks! Ha, ha, ha! (_coughing_) Ho, ho! VANE. Mr. Cibber, age and infirmity are privileged; but for you, Sir Charles Pomander-- WOFF. Don't be angry. Do you not see it is a jest, and, as might be expected, a sorry one? VANE. A jest; it must go no farther, or by Heaven!-- (_Woffington places her hand on his shoulder--Mabel appears, D. R. 3 E._) MABEL. Ernest, dear Ernest! (_Woffington removes her hand quickly._) VANE. Mabel!