They wait, and wait, and wait, until every man jack in the room is quite certain that it really is taking longer than it ought to— much longer— something must be out of joint. A member of the City jury can be heard mumbling some kind of witticism. One of the goldsmiths says clearly, "Perhaps he’s at the hanging!" and another responds, "Perhaps he’s run off to France!" whereupon he is furiously shushed by no less than the Duke of Marlborough.