OLD MIRABEL _Mr. Dowton._ YOUNG MIRABEL _Mr. C. Kemble._ CAPTAIN DURETETE _Mr. Bannister._ DUGARD _Mr. Holland._ PETIT _Mr. De Camp._
BRAVOES--_Messrs. Maddocks, Webb, Evans and Sparks._
ORIANA _Mrs. Young._ BISARRE _Mrs. Jordan._ LAMORCE _Miss Tidswell._
_Enter_ DUGARD, _and his Man_, PETIT, _in Riding Habits_.
_Dug._ No more! We have rid a swinging pace from Nemours, since two this morning! Petit, run to Rousseau's, and bespeak a dinner, at a Lewis d'or a head, to be ready by one.
_Petit._ How many will there be of you, sir?
_Dug._ Let me see--Mirabel one, Duretete two, myself three----
_Dug._ How now, sir? at your old travelling familiarity! When abroad, you had some freedom, for want of better company, but among my friends, at Paris, pray remember your distance--Begone, sir! [_Exit_ PETIT.] This fellow's wit was necessary abroad, but he's too cunning for a domestic; I must dispose of him some way else.--Who's here? Old Mirabel, and my sister!--my dearest sister!
_Dug._ Monsieur Mirabel! I'm heartily glad to see you.
_Old Mir._ Honest Mr. Dugard, by the blood of the Mirabels, I'm your most humble servant!
_Dug._ Why, sir, you've cast your skin, sure; you're brisk and gay--lusty health about you--no sign of age, but your silver hairs.
_Old Mir._ Silver hairs! Then they are quicksilver hairs, sir. Whilst I have golden pockets, let my hairs be silver, an' they will. Adsbud, sir, I can dance, and sing, and drink, and--no, I can't wench. But Mr. Dugard, no news of my son Bob in all your travels?
_Old Mir._ Come home! Bob come home! By the blood of the Mirabels, Mr. Dugard, what say you?
_Dug._ He's certainly come, and you may see him within this hour or two.
_Old Mir._ Swear it, Mr. Dugard, presently swear it.
_Dug._ Sir, he came to town with me this morning; I left him at the Banieurs, being a little disordered after riding, and I shall see him again presently.
_Old Mir._ What! and he was ashamed to ask a blessing with his boots on! A nice dog! Well, and how fares the young rogue, ha?
_Dug._ A fine gentleman, sir; he'll be his own messenger.
_Old Mir._ A fine gentleman! But is the rogue like me still?
_Dug._ Why, yes, sir; he's very like his mother, and as like you, as most modern sons are to their fathers.