LAND. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?--stand back! FOTHER. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [_Throws paper to him_.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room. NURSE [_aside_]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all again--you'll see. LAND. [_aside to Waiter_]. He's paid missus the rent--there's luck! [_Exit_. WAITER. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the waiter, I'll bet. [_Exit_. FOTHER. [_advancing to_ BRUMMELL]. My dear Mr. Brummell. BRUM. Really, you have the advantage of me. FOTHER. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [_To_ NURSE.] The good sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him to them. Is he always so, my good woman? NURSE. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so at times. BRUM. Don't know you in the least. [_Imagines he sees Ballarat_.] Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I can't be seen in this state. FOTHER. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [_Leading him out_.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat. BRUM. Well--be it so. Ballarat--mind--when you return to England let them know that, even in this squalor--to his last hour in the world--Brummell--poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready--I am ready. [_Exit_ FOTHERBY, _leading_ BRUMMELL, _the_ NURSE _following_. THE SET OF TURQUOISE THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ACT I, SCENE I CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife Miriam, a maid, who personates a page. SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden. LARA. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice! It hangs in the still twilight, large and full, Like a ripe orange. BEATRICE. Like an orange? yes, But not so red, Count. Then it has no stem. Now, as 'tis hidden by those drifts of cloud, With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark, 'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east, In the cleft side of a mountain. And that reminds me--speaking of jewels--love, There is a set of turquoise at Malan's, Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace--ah! If they were mine. LARA. And so they should be, dear, Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice, All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours, Although your hand is heavy now with gems That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness. Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose Into a bud again? BEATRICE. You love me not. LARA. A coquette's song. BEATRICE. I sing it. LARA. A poor song.