Sinopsis

Dug. Sirrah, what's o'clock? Petit. Turned of eleven, sir. 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—— Petit. And I four. 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 your distance—Begone, sir! [ExitPetit.]