"Then show me upstairs at once. I shall lie down until the wheel of my chaise is mended. And shew this lady another room, and send two or three chambermaids to attend to her." Mr. Upex looked much relieved. It was not such a shameless affair as he had been led by wanton ambiguity of phrase to believe. "What about the duck?" "What duck? What duck?" asked Mr. Ripple fretfully. "The duck your honour ordered--that is, was about to order when I interrupted your honour." "Send up three slices of the breast on a small tray to my chamber, and don't put any stuffing on the plate, the odour of sage upsets my appetite." "Indeed?" said Mr. Upex, quite frankly interested by such a nasal idiosyncrasy. "Yes, and send out a woman of taste and discretion to purchase a nightcap." "I wouldn't say, your honour, as how one of the maids wouldn't oblige your--er--the good lady." "For myself, landlord, for myself." "I beg your honour's pardon." Mr. Upex hurried off to execute his guest's requirement and presently returned to escort them to their rooms. "When my man comes in," said the Beau, "send him up to me with the nightcap." Pridgeon had rescued the wheel from the pond and, having successfully directed two bumpkins to trundle it to the blacksmith, arrived at the inn with an admiring retinue of idlers, whom he regaled with quarts of bitter beer. The woman of taste entrusted with the purchase of the nightcap (she was the scullerymaid) returned with the vestment neatly wrapped in paper, and, meeting her master on the stairs, was told to hand it to the diminutive groom, who chucked her under the chin with the parcel and took his bow-legged way upstairs to Mr. Ripple's temporary apartment. Outside he rapped smartly on the door, which was cautiously opened sufficiently wide to allow the urbane countenance of the Beau to peer round the corner. "Is that you, Pridgeon?" "Me, y'r honour, with a present from Great Cobblebury." The Beau took the nightcap, and in its place handed muddied smallcloaths, smeared coat, and wrinkled waistcoat. "Have these cloaths thoroughly brushed." "Yes, y'r honour." "And bring me three slices of breast in an hour's time." "Yes, y'r honour." "And don't get drunk to celebrate your carelessness." "No, y'r honour." "Poor clod," murmured the Beau to his polite self, as he closed the door of his chamber and double locked it against intrusion. I think it would certainly be indiscreet to spy upon Mr. Ripple's retirement. How did he spend his time in bed? The whisper of book-leaves tempts me to suppose that he read several of the bitterest odes, very possibly a whole satire of Quintus Horatius Flaccus, that poet so fierce but withal so urbane. Meanwhile Mrs. Courteen, surrounded by three maids, respectively known as Susan, Joan, and Elizabeth, held forth upon her misfortunes to a sympathetick audience.