With the meal over, and everybody on the _qui vive_, this scene ensues: * * * * * Enter Foppington (who has been chatting to the ladies and who now seeks the post-dinner conversation of his host and Lord Morelove).
"FOPPINGTON.

Nay, pr'ythee, Sir Charles, let's have a little of thee.
We have been so chagrin without thee, that, stop my breath [what a bloodcurdling oath, so suggestive of the awful curses of our own _jeunesse d'oree_], the ladies are gone, half asleep, to church for want of thy company.
"SIR CHARLES.

That's hard indeed, while your lordship was among 'em.
Is Lady Betty gone too?
"FOP.

She was just upon the wing.

But I caught her by the snuff-box, and she pretends to stay to see if I'll give it her again or no.
"MORE.