Bea. (alarmed.) Does he? that is a sign of the deepest sorrow: I must speak to him, I must put books into his hands.
Rob. O Sir, there's no need of that; he has a book in his hand often enough.
Bea. And what kind of books does he read?
Bob. Nay, it is always the same one.
Bea. Well, he can't do better: there is but one book in the world that can't be too often in a man's hand.
Rob. Very true, Sir, but it is not that one, tho'.—I thought as you do myself, and so I slyly look'd over his shoulder one morning to be sure of it; but I saw nothing in it but all about the great people at court, and the great offices they hold.
Bea. You astonish me, Robert. His heavy loss I fear has bewildered his wits. Poor man! poor man! and all the sweet children too!
Rob. Yes Sir, they—they will feel—
Bea. What would you say, my friend.
Rob. Nothing, Sir. This vile neckcloth takes me so tight round the throat, an' a plague to it!
Gar. (coming forward with a broad grin.) God bless you, Sir! I be glad to see you here. How does your good lady and master William do? He is grown a fine young gentleman now, I warrant, he, he, he, he, he!
Rob. (to Gar. angrily.) Can't you ask a gentleman how he does, fool, without putting that damned grin upon your face?
