MISS SKY. Let us first be assured that one is about to be made. Search the room, perhaps we may discover something that may confirm our suspicions. Miss Snare, you examine his books, and the drawers of his table; Boss peep about in the corners; Damper, go up stairs and cross-examine him; I'll rummage the sideboard. _(Opens sideboard cupboard.)_ Oh! what's here? ALL. What? MISS SKY. Oho! a wedding-cake and cards. _(Takes out cake and cards.)_ DAM. A wedding-cake! MISS SNA. And cards too! MISS SKY. _(Holding them out and singing.)_ "A bridal wreath we weave for thee, Of every flower the fairest." DAM. _(Taking them from her.)_ Connubial cards linked together by little bits of silver cord. _(Reading.)_ "Mr. John Niggle, Mrs. John Niggle." MISS SKY. _(Placing cake on sideboard and taking a packet of cards from the cupboard.)_ Here they are, dozens upon dozens of them; the lady's card the largest, as a broad hint that she means to be paramount. MISS SNA. Can it be? Is it a fact? _(Taking a pair of cards.)_ It is, indeed, true; and if he is not already married, he will be so very soon. I couldn't have thought it, after--after----_(Bursts into tears.)_ MISS SKY. Miss Snare, what's the matter? BOSS. It seems as if she had set her heart upon the gentleman herself. DAM. Hum! I am very happy to know that you, at least, are not the woman to whom he intends sacrificing himself; but I'll discover the party, and if it should be Miss Coy, I'll shoot him out of hand, rather than see him so duped. He sha'n't marry I'm resolved. _(Going out at the back and calling.)_ Niggle, Niggle, you fool, where are you? [_Exit._ MISS SKY. Miss Snare, Miss Snare, pray don't take the matter so much to heart. MISS SNA. Well, I hope he'll be happy--I'm sure he will--such an excellent temper--such taste in all matters. [_BOSS comes down C._ BOSS. Except in dress. His coats seem to have been cut out with a knife and fork. MISS SNA. In elegance of costume, Mr. Boss, you completely bear away the palm. BOSS. My taste in the matter, is, I flatter myself, perfect--indeed with me it is a _furor._ MISS SKY. Oh, sir, I am afraid you admire yourself too much, to bestow a thought of regard on one of us poor women. BOSS. I shall never marry till I discover perfection. MISS SKY. You will find grey hairs hanging over your temples, before you obtain that object of your search. BOSS. (C.) Then I'll die a bachelor! MISS SKY. (C.) And, like the swan, sing your own elegy. MISS SNA. (L.) A young man of Mr. Boss's figure, must in time strike those who would think it little trouble to conquer the faults of habit and nature, and make herself as near, what _he_ may consider to be perfection, as possible.