* *

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

_SIR SIMON ROCHDALE'S Library._

_Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE and the EARL OF FITZ BALAAM._

_Sir Simon._ Believe me, my lord, the man I wish'd most to meet in
my library this morning, was the Earl of Fitz Balaam.

_Lord Fitz._ Thank you, Sir Simon.

_Sir Simon._ Your arrival, a day before your promise, gives us such
convenient leisure to talk over the arrangements, relative to the
marriage of Lady Caroline Braymore, your lordship's daughter, with
my son.

_Lord Fitz._ True, Sir Simon.

_Sir Simon._ Then, while Lady Caroline is at her toilet, we'll dash
into business at once; for I know your lordship is a man of few
words. They tell me, my lord, you have sat in the Upper House, and
said nothing but aye and no, there, for these thirty years.

_Lord Fitz._ I spoke, for more than a minute, in the year of the
influenza.

_Sir Simon._ Bless me! the epidemic, perhaps, raging among the
members, at the moment.

_Lord Fitz._ Yes;--they cough'd so loud, I left off in the middle.

_Sir Simon._ And you never attempted again.

_Lord Fitz._ I hate to talk much, Sir Simon;--'tis my way; though
several don't like it.

_Sir Simon._ I do. I consider it as a mark of your lordship's
discretion. The less you say, my lord, in my mind, the wiser you
are; and I have often thought it a pity, that some noble orators
hav'n't follow'd your lordship's example.--But, here are the
writings. [_Sitting down with LORD FITZ BALAAM, and taking them
from the Table._] We must wave ceremony now, my lord; for all this
pile of parchment is built on the independent four thousand a year
of your daughter, Lady Caroline, on one hand, and your lordship's
incumbrances, on the other.

_Lord Fitz._ I have saddles on my property, Sir Simon.

_Sir. Simon._ Which saddles, your lordship's property being
uncommonly small, look something like sixteen stone upon a poney.
The Fitz Balaam estate, for an earl, is deplorably narrow.

_Lord Fitz._ Yet, it has given security for a large debt.

_Sir Simon._ Large, indeed! I can't think how you have contriv'd it.
'Tis the Archbishop of Brobdignag, squeez'd into Tom Thumb's
pantaloons.

_Lord Fitz._ Mine is the oldest estate in England, Sir Simon.

_Sir Simon._ If we may judge of age by decay, my lord, it must be
very ancient, indeed!--But this goes to something in the shape of
supplies. [_Untying the Papers._] "Covenant between Augustus Julius
Braym