Lovel.  No matter, no matter—­The fellow may be a new-come servant:  he is not in livery, I see.  He may not know her person.  You can but be bloated and in a dropsy.

Wid.  Dropsical people look not so fresh and ruddy as I do.

Lovel.  True—­but the clown may not know that.  ’Tis but for a present deception.  Peggy, Peggy, call’d I, in a female tone, softly at the door.  Madam, answer’d Peggy; and came up to me to the parlour-door.

Lovel.  Tell him the lady is ill; and has lain down upon the couch.  And get his business from him, whatever you do.

Away went Peggy.

Lovel.  Now, my dear widow, lie along the settee, and put your handkerchief over your face, that, if he will speak to you himself, he may not see your eyes and your hair.—­So—­that’s right.—­I’ll step into the closet by you.

I did so.

Peggy. [Returning.] He won’t deliver his business to me.  He will speak to Mrs. Harriot Lucas her own self.

Lovel. [Holding the door in my hand.] Tell him that this is Mrs. Harriot Lucas; and let him come in.  Whisper him (if he doubts) that she is bloated, dropsical, and not the woman she was.

Away went Margery.

Lovel.  And now, my dear widow, let me see what a charming Mrs. Lovelace you’ll make!—­Ask if he comes from Miss Howe.  Ask if he lives with her.  Ask how she does.  Call her, at every word, your dear Miss Howe.  Offer him money—­take this half-guinea for him—­complain of your head, to have a pretence to hold it down; and cover your forehead and eyes with your hand, where your handkerchief hides not your face.—­That’s right—­and dismiss the rascal—­[here he comes]—­as soon as you can.

In came the fellow, bowing and scraping, his hat poked out before him with both his hands.

Fellow.  I am sorry, Madam, an’t please you, to find you ben’t well.

Widow.  What is your business with me, friend?

Fellow.  You are Mrs. Harriot Lucas, I suppose, Madam?

Widow.  Yes.  Do you come from Miss Howe?

Fellow.  I do, Madam.

Widow.  Dost thou know my right name, friend?

Fellow.  I can give a shrewd guess.  But that is none of my business.

Widow.  What is thy business?  I hope Miss Howe is well?

Fellow.  Yes, Madam; pure well, I thank God.  I wish you were so too.

Widow.  I am too full of grief to be well.

Fellow.  So belike I have hard to say.

Widow.  My head aches so dreadfully, I cannot hold it up.  I must beg of you to let me know your business.

Fellow.  Nay, and that be all, my business is soon known.  It is but to give this letter into your own partiklar hands—­here it is.

Widow. [Taking it.] From my dear friend Miss Howe?—­Ah, my head!

Fellow.  Yes, Madam:  but I am sorry you are so bad.