_Oliver._ Stop--one word. (_Baron breaks from him, and exit._) So this is love of pedigree: this is because he reckons by titles, not by character. And if a certain lady, whose name I won't mention, were not countess Roland, he'd see she was no more than a deep, decoying, match-making----Plague on't! I hope she won't next hook him into the noose; for if she had a husband every morning, my life on't, she'd be a widow before night. Oh lord! poor Agnes, poor young master, and poor old Oliver. (_Remains in a thoughtful posture._) _Enter_ Christopher _through the gates._ _Chris._ (_looking round._) Dear, dear, what a nice, sweet, pretty place! Well, I declare when travellers used to talk of their fine sights, I used to wink and nod, as much as to say, I believe it's all bounce. But when I go back, and describe that object (_pointing to the abbey in the distance_) and this object (_turning round, and running against Oliver_)--Sir, I beg pardon for calling you an object. But you see I am just come from the woods, Sir--from the woods about six leagues off, Sir, where I was hawking with my lord, when he--he--he--od'rabbit it!--Hit or miss, it will be rare sport. _Oliver._ What sport? And who are you? (_angrily._) _Chris._ Why, that's it. I want to know who I am; and perhaps you can tell me. (_Gets close to him._) Little Solomon, you see, one of our under falconers, and who has seen all my relations, come t'other day to this town for a basket of provisions for my lord and his hawking-party; and as he was staring about, who shou'd he see ushered into a fine house, and hear being call'd by a fine name, but my aunt Winifred--old Winifred Winbuttle, the housekeeper! Very well--I cou'dn't say or unsay this, you know; so I directly gets leave of my lord to come myself, and stare about; for thinks I, if I _am_ made a fool of, I'm only where I was, you know. (_With affected simplicity._) _Oliver._ Certainly, or worse; for to suppose I'll stay chattering here about Solomon and Winifred, proves, if not quite, that you are very near an idiot! (_going._) _Chris._ (_taking his arm._) Very--I'm very near an idiot! And yet, do you know, upon my honour, Solomon described every thing!--from aunt Winifred, and her great title, down to the Gothic latch'd gate, and the little twaddling old butler who open'd it: he did--and if I could but once--(_looking about_)--only just once--(_seeing the chateau_)--Why that's it! by Solomon's description, that must be the very house, that the gate, and you--he! he! he!--Come, I'm no fool now! Icod, I see who you are. _Oliver_ (_standing before the door._) Dolt, booby! I leave you to your folly! But I would have you know, there are none in this house, none but the marchioness Alberti, the countess of Roland-- _Chris._ Who? _Oliver._ The countess of Roland, and her niece Ulrica; so that's your final answer from the little twaddling old butler. [_Exit into the chateau._