Rufus enters a publick house, as mentioned in the troublesome correspondence of A.B., and sees a very cute Ralph Fiennes-type sitting at the bar with his garters crossed as in the fashions of the day. "Sir, might you be 'Alex'?" he asks this worthy gentleman, and with a flourish the gentleman gives assent. Yes, he is the selfsame Alexander Bancroft of the letter. "And prithee," asks this worthy fellow, "Who might you be?" Forsooth, he is Rufus Humphrey. "Zounds!" exclaims the fellow. "Unless your wish is to be carried out of here like a blackguard, I surmise the best course of action might be to absent yourself from my wife, and leave off your attentions." Alexander Bancroft, heretofore known as A.B. in these proceedings, begs the angry artist and merchant to settle himself. "Sent you a letter unto my home? To my wife, at the DUMBO loft where we make our primary residence? Where my children do even now bend and tremble with the extent of their mother's whoredom? Whatever it is that you two have shared and tendered, it has now ended. Acquaint yourself with the facts!" Alexander Bancroft begs, worriedly, for the intemperate Rufus to sit himself down and share a cup of ale, but the Humphrey Man will not be assuaged! "She asked of you to let her alone, and to take your leave!" With compassion, the altogether appealing and seemingly blameless Bancroft shakes his head and considers the Humphrey Man kindly. "I do beg your pardon and clemency, good sir, but that is not what your good wife said when last we spoke." Rufus begins to shake like the very timbers under a gale: "Excuse me. You spoke to her?" They gaze, each upon the other, and realize Alison's whoredom has outplayed them both, in capacity for endurance and in base mendacity. Methinks Rufus will be swiftly forgiving, for, what has Alexander Bancroft vouchsafed him but the answer to a prayer, on the wings of a dove as white as the Lily?