One Touch of Nature - A Petite Drama by Benjamin Webster

Author:Benjamin Webster [Webster, Benjamin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anboco
Published: 2017-02-14T23:00:00+00:00

Bel. Do you still persist in saying that you did not send the bouquet? No humbug.

Fle. I do, I do, I do! there, now let me go.

Bel. But you did send it; I am certain of it. I have proofs.

Fle. I shall be curious to know them, presently.

Bel. I will show you at once, if you’ll listen.

Fle. Impossible!

Bel. Do you think to escape me thus? I am not a man——

Fle. Unhand me, I say.

[disengages himself, and exits, C.

Bel. Well, that’s one way of cutting short an explanation. For whom do they take me? (to CONSTANCE.) You here, madame?

Con. Have you not perceived me?

Bel. You here! What are you doing with Mr. Fletcher?

Con. Rehearsing my new part.

Bel. Rehearsing! what, the part he but now vowed you should not act? At any rate, you ought at least, both of you, to recollect that I am not a man to be easily imposed upon. Can’t humbug me! something remains behind.

Con. Then leave it in the hall. You have already made yourself perfectly ridiculous this morning, and very little more will render you perfectly insupportable.

Bel. That’s very easily said, madame, very easily said, but when my mind—

Con. Your mind!

Bel. Yes, madame, my mind. I beg leave to respectfully assert that I have a mind, and when the suspicions of that mind are appeased, then, madame, and not till then—

Con. What an excellent tragedian you would have made.

Bel. Tragedian? humbug! I have my hand full of proofs—this bouquet—

Con. Pansies for thought—Love lies a-bleeding. Have you been walking London with this bouquet?

Bel. Yes, madame, I have, and have ended by finding out what I sought to know.

Con. And what is the great discovery you have made? One would almost imagine it were perpetual motion.

Bel. Mr. Fletcher sent you this bunch of flowers.

Con. The race is not to the swift. You have discovered nothing. Fletcher did not send me those flowers.

Bel. I beg your pardon; this bouquet was purchased in Regent-street this morning at 10.45 A.M. The man who bought it was old, and dressed in a drab hat and black coat. They gave me an exact description of him, and I recognised him immediately—the copyist who is always at Fletcher’s elbow, and who is literally his right hand.

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