_Sir C._ [_Looking at the Furniture._] Oh! I am amusing myself better than you think--Indulging an edifying contemplation among the tombs of departed estates--[_Looking round the Furniture, viz. Closets, that show old Writings, tied up; Shelves with Boxes, labelled Mortgages, Lease and Release, &c._] What mouldered skins, that will never see day-light again, and that, with a good herald, would vie with Westminster Abbey in holiday entertainment. For instance, now, what have we here?--Hah! The last remains of Fatland Priory--Once of great monastic importance: A proverb of pride, sloth, and hypocrisy. After the Reformation, the seat of old English hospitality and benevolence--In the present century, altered, adorned, pulled down, and the materials sold by auction. _Cliff._ Edifying, indeed, sir; your comments are not lost. _Sir C._ Here lie, undisturbed, in dust, the relics of Court Baron Castle, granted, at the Conquest, to the family of Loftimount. The last of this ancient race, having won twenty-seven king's plates, and represented the county in six parliaments, after many struggles, died of the pistol fever. A disconsolate annuitant inscribed this box to his memory.--Well, Clifford, have you done? _Cliff._ Yes, sir. [_Reads, as if to himself._ _You have captivated a young man of rank and fortune, but you are discovered, and his ruin and yours would be the consequence of pursuing any designs, that could impede his proposed marriage with Miss Alscrip.--Throw yourself upon the generosity of his family, and your fortune's made.--Send your answer (and let it be immediate) to me, at Sir Clement Flint's house._ _Yours, &c. &c._ HENRY CLIFFORD. [_CLIFFORD folds the Letter._ _Sir C._ Our French friend is the man to deliver it, and to bring the answer. I am going home; you'll overtake me. [_Exit._ _Enter CHIGNON._ _Cliff._ [_Sealing the Letter._] You come apropos, monsieur. [_Gives the Letter with an Air of Mystery._] Have the goodness to put this letter into Miss Alton's own hands. _Chignon._ [_To himself._] Mademoiselle Alton! Peste! My trick has not passed. _Cliff._ To Miss Alton by herself--I am in all the secret. _Chignon._ [_To himself._] Devil take Tiffany, for making you so wise. _Cliff._ And you serve your lady, when you serve me with Miss Alton--Monsieur, an answer as quick as possible--You will find me at Sir Clement Flint's--it is only in the next street--and--you understand me--[_Shaking his Purse._]--Alerte, monsieur. [_Exit._