waves it again, and all the clothes tumble together in a heap.

One hears the front door bang. Harlequin waves Columbine into the
bedroom, sweeps the clothes together into a neat pile and stands
waiting by the door. There enters Lord Eglantine, the Beau. A trifle
pale, disordered, calm. He has been gambling all night. To the rhythm
of a minuet Harlequin takes his cloak, hat, and cane, takes off his
coat and gets him into a gorgeous dressing-gown, and so into his chair.
And there he sits looking for all the world like the bundle of clothes
come to life.

In the next room Columbine begins to sing again, and Lord Eglantine
leans forward to listen.

EGLANTINE. Maunds of cowslips, honey bags of bees! Whose voice is that?

HARLEQUIN. Ten thousand pardons, my lord, it is the chambermaid.

EGLANTINE. She has a name?

HARLEQUIN. Richardson, my lord.

EGLANTINE. Richardson. Are there people called Richardson? Interesting!

HARLEQUIN. I will stop her, my lord. We did not expect your lordship to
return so soon.

EGLANTINE. No. A woman singing ... in my bedroom. Dusting yesterday's cares
away to make room for the cares of to-morrow. Put that down. I may want to
say it again. What is she singing? You know everything.