_Landlord_. I ask pardon—Mrs. Newington, I mean. Do you know who them ladies are that you have been and turned out of the Dolphin? _Landlady_ (_alarmed_). Not I, indeed. Who are they, pray? Why, if they are quality it’s no fault of mine. It is their own fault for coming, like scrubs, without four horses. Why, if quality will travel the road this way, incognito, how can they expect to be known and treated as quality? ’Tis no fault of mine. Why didn’t you find out sooner who they were, Mr. Newington? What else, in the ’versal world have you to do, but to go basking about in the yards and places with your tankard in your hand, from morning till night? What have you else to ruminate, all day long, but to find out who’s who, I say? _Farm._ Clapper! clapper! clapper! like my mill in a high wind, landlord. Clapper! clapper! clapper!—enough to stun a body. _Landlord_. That is not used to it; but use is all, they say. _Landlady_. Will you answer me, Mr. Newington? Who are the grandees that were in the Dolphin?—and what’s become on them? _Landlord_. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you’d be sorry not to treat ’em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning. _Landlady_. Mercy! is that all? What a combustion for nothing in life! _Finsb._ For nothing in life, as you say, ma’m; that is, nothing in high life, I’m sure, ma’m; nay, I dare a’most venture to swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem? _Landlady_. There, Mr. Newington; there’s your Talbot for you! and there’s your grandees! O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight. _Landlord_. Scrubs, I don’t, nor can’t, nor won’t call them that pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don’t, nor won’t, nor can’t, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter. A scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub. _Finsb._ Dear me! ’Twas not I said _scrub_. Did I say scrub? _Farm._ No matter if you did. _Finsb._ No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I’m confident I wouldn’t for the world leave it in anyone’s power to say that I said—that I called—any young gentleman of Eton a _scrub_! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot! _Farm._ And a pretty figure you’d make in a riot! _Landlady_. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house. _Farm._ Nor about scrubs.