_Four._ "Beaugard, hum! Beaugard," says he--"ay, it must be so,--a black man, is he not?" "Ay," says I, "blackish--a dark brown." "Full-faced?" "Yes." "A sly, subtle, observing eye?" "The same." "A strong-built, well-made man?" "Right." "A devilish fellow for a wench, a devilish fellow for a wench, I warrant him; a thundering rogue upon occasion--Beaugard! a thundering fellow for a wench: I must be acquainted with him." _Cour._ But to the money, the money, man; that's the thing I would be acquainted withal. _Beau._ This civil gentleman of the chevalier's acquaintance comes yesterday morning to my lodging, and seeing my picture in miniature upon the toilet, told me, with the greatest ecstasy in the world, that was the thing he came to me about: he told me there was a lady of his acquaintance had some favourable thoughts of me, and "I'gad," says he, "she's a hummer; such a _bona roba_,[28] ah!"--So without more ado begs me to lend it him till dinner (for we concluded to eat together); so away he scuttled with as great joy as if he had found the philosopher's stone. _Cour._ Very well. _Beau._ At Locket's[29] we met again; where after a thousand grimaces, to show how much he was pleased, instead of my picture, presents me with the contents aforesaid; and told me the lady desired me to accept of them for the picture, which she was much transported withal, as well as with the original. _Cour._ Ha! _Beau._ Now, whereabouts this taking quality lies in me, the devil take me, Ned, if I know; but the fates, Ned, the fates! _Cour._ A curse on the fates! Of all strumpets, fortune's the basest. 'Twas fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red, the grievance of the nation; fortune made the peace just when we were on the brink of a war; then fortune disbanded us, and lost us two months' pay: fortune gave us debentures instead of ready money, and by very good fortune I sold mine, and lost heartily by it, in hopes the grinding ill-natured dog that bought it will never get a shilling for't. _Beau._ Leave off thy railing, for shame! it looks like a cur that barks for want of bones. Come, times may mend, and an honest soldier be in fashion again. _Cour._ These greasy, fat, unwieldy, wheezing rogues that live at home, and brood over their bags, when a fit of fear's upon them, then if one of us pass but by, all the family is ready at the door to cry, "Heavens bless you, sir! the Laird go along with you!" _Beau._ "Ah, good men; what pity 'tis such proper gentlemen should ever be out of employment!"