MENTEITH (_breaking down_). Mr. George, you’ve been a damned good master to me, and I’ve been a damned good servant to you; we’ve been proud of each other from the first; but if you’ll excuse my plainness, Mr. George, I never liked you better than to-day. AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the tongs, and curl me like a bridegroom. (_Sits before dressing-glass_; MENTEITH _produces curling irons and plies them_. AUSTIN _sings_)— ‘I’d crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’ DROP ACT III. MUSICAL INDUCTION: the ‘Minuet’ from ‘_Don Giovanni_’ _The stage represents Miss Foster’s lodging as in Act I_. SCENE I DOROTHY, R., _at tambour_; ANTHONY, _C._, _bestriding chair_; MISS FOSTER, _L.C._ ANTHONY. Yes, ma’am, I like my regiment: we are all gentlemen, from old Fred downwards, and all of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends, except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I’m done with him. I assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corinthian to the last degree. I wouldn’t shock you ladies for the world— MISS FOSTER. Don’t mind me, my dear; go on. ANTHONY. Really, ma’am, you must pardon me: I trust I understand what topics are to be avoided among females—And before my sister, too! A girl of her age! DOROTHY. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I’m old enough to be your mother. ANTHONY. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; you are not a man of the world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in the service. MISS FOSTER. I am not surprised that it maintains its old reputation. You know, my dear (_to_ DOROTHY), it was George Austin’s regiment. DOROTHY. Was it, aunt? ANTHONY. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a precious dust they make about him still—a parcel of old frumps! That’s why I went to see him. But he’s quite extinct: he couldn’t be Corinthian if he tried. MISS FOSTER. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin held a very different position from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave. ANTHONY. Come, ma’am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know what you’re at: of course the old pût cut no end of a dash with the Duchess. MISS FOSTER. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; _that_ was immoral. ANTHONY. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince about Perdita Robinson. MISS FOSTER. No, I had forgotten it. ANTHONY. O, well, I know—that duel! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I don’t think you’d be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards.