What a quaint, circumspect and very ceremonious affair must that lovers' row have been. No swearing, no slang or loud talking, but everything deliberate and in the best of form. Lady Betty telling Morelove to go about his business, and that quickly, but doing so with a stately elegance worthy of the great Mrs. Barry; the suitor bowing low, with his white hand pressed against that "odious proud heart" which is gently breaking at the thought of departing. What a nice painting it would make for a Watteau fan. Thus nearly all our characters have their entrances, Lady Betty is revealed to us through the medium of the lively dialogue quoted a few pages back, and then there is another stir. In comes Lord Foppington, otherwise Colley Cibber, in all the vapid glory of fine clothes, and a great periwig. A very prince of coxcombs, with his soft smile and conscious air of superiority--a mere bag of vanity, whose emptiness is partly hidden by gorgeous raiment, gold embroidery, rings, snuff-box, muff and what-not. With what genteel condescension does he greet Sir Charles; how gracefully nonchalant is he to my Lord Morelove. "My dear agreeable! _Que je t'embrasse! Pardi! Il y a cent ans que je ne t'ai veu_. My lord, I am your lordship's most obedient humble servant." So Foppington takes his place in the comedy, and begins to play his brainless but important part. He, the disconsolate Morelove, and the brilliant Lady Betty all meet at dinner with Sir Charles and Lady Easy. Of course the hero makes an unsuccessful attempt to regain the good graces of his inamorata, and, of course, the coxcomb carries on a violent flirtation with her in the angry face of his rival. With the meal over, and everybody on the _qui vive_, this scene ensues: * * * * * Enter Foppington (who has been chatting to the ladies and who now seeks the post-dinner conversation of his host and Lord Morelove). "FOPPINGTON. Nay, pr'ythee, Sir Charles, let's have a little of thee. We have been so chagrin without thee, that, stop my breath [what a bloodcurdling oath, so suggestive of the awful curses of our own _jeunesse d'orée_], the ladies are gone, half asleep, to church for want of thy company. "SIR CHARLES. That's hard indeed, while your lordship was among 'em. Is Lady Betty gone too? "FOP. She was just upon the wing. But I caught her by the snuff-box, and she pretends to stay to see if I'll give it her again or no. "MORE. Death! 'tis that I gave her, and the only present she ever would receive from me. [_Aside to_ SIR CHARLES.] Ask him how he came by it? "SIR CHARLES. Pr'ythee don't be uneasy. Did she give it to you, my lord? "FOP. Faith, Charles, I can't say she did or she did not, but we were playing the fool, and I took it--_à la_--pshah--I can't tell thee in French, neither, but Horace touches it to a nicety--'twas _Pignas direptum male pertinaci_. [_Nota Bene_: Our modern comedians seldom quote Horace; their humour is not of the classic kind.]