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yourself, a man in the empire that would know how to wear it.

Page. His consummate valet excepted.

Lor. Hold your peace, Sirrah.—Look here, my Lord; if I had not myself given the tailor a few hints, he could never have had genius enough to finish it in this style. I'd give a ducat that the Marquis De Florimel's valet could see it. He pretends—But you don't look at it, my Lord: what is the matter with you?

Vald. (eagerly.) Is any thing the matter?

Lor. Nothing, my Lord; but the ladies are waiting for you to go with them to the grotto: won't you be pleased to put on your new coat?

Vald. Put it on then. (Stretching out his arms to put on the coat.)

Lor. But we must first take off the old coat.

Vald. I forgot that. (Trying to pull off his coat.) It sticks strangely to me: doff it if thou can'st.

Lor. (after pulling off his coat.) Now, my Lord, thrust your arm into this beautiful sleeve; the whole beau monde of Paris can't shew you its fellow.—That is the wrong arm, my Lord.

Vaid. It will do; it will do.

Lor. Pardon me, my Lord; your left arm won't do for the right sleeve of the coat.

Vald. (holding out his other arm and stumbling some time.) There is no hole at all to put my arm into.