_Bar._ Ay, what brings you, sir? And don't--don't stand staring there with the door open. Either (_beating his cane violently against the floor_) either come in or go out. _Chris._ Out, if you please, sir. [_Exit._ _Bar._ (_pulling him back_) Stop; this won't do. How came you in my house? _Chris._ (_confused_) Came! why I came from young count Roland, sir. _Bar._ Oh! you want to see the countess, then. _Chris._ Thank ye, I have seen her; and as her answer isn't at all satisfactory, I hope shortly to return, and take something much more satisfactory. _Looking significantly at_ Ulrica, _and going_, Ulrica _nods in return._ _Ol._ (_coming between him and the door._) I dare say you do; but--he! he! he! the little old butler will prevent you. My lord, just now, instead of a message from count Roland, this fellow talk'd of your keeping low company.--(_Christopher shakes his head to stop him._) You did! you actually hinted, that one of our fine ladies was no better than old Winifred Winbuttle, a housekeeper-- _Bar._ Dolt! blockhead! (_to Christopher_) when, except this untitled girl, there is not one plain lady, no, nor one real gentlewoman in the whole party; and she, as heiress and sole relation of the high-born countess Roland---- _Chris._ The sole relation of who? _Bar._ The high-born countess Roland! _Chris._ (_eagerly._) What! you havn't heard--the heiress dare not even hint--Oh ho! (_looking at Ulrica, who beckons him to go._) But I won't stay, else I could tell you, that if you and your son had purses as long as the dead pedigree of the Ravensburgs, they wouldn't be half long enough for the live pedigree of the _high-born_ countess Roland! and as her relations will shortly be yours, I'll send express for some few dozens from Franconia who'll now have two strings to their bow; for if cousin Winifred Winbuttle don't keep open house for them, ecod! cousin baron Ravensburg must. And so, yours my lord, yours madam: and there--(_whispering Oliver_)--there's a Roland for your Oliver, my little twaddling old butler. [_Exit._ _Bar._ Send express for a few dozens! Without there! Stop that scoundrel! Ulrica, what is all this? Speak, I insist on an explanation. _Ul._ So do I, Sir--I insist upon an explanation, and I will have one, if I follow that impudent fellow to the world's end. _Bar._ Stay where you are. In, in, if you please. _Ul._ (_trying to pass him._) Out, out, if you please. (_mimicking Christopher._) _Bar._ Oliver, be you her guard, whilst I pursue this false, this infamous---- _Ul._ (_getting between him and the door._) Stay. SONG--_Ulrica._ I. Sure woman's to be pitied Whenever she's committed, For being fond and gay; And those who cry out "shame!" Are very much to blame-- That's all I say. II.