SHORT. Why, what one earth’s the matter?
MRS. SHORT. Only a sudden stitch. (keeping at a distance)
SHORT. I tell you I want to have a chat with you—come, sit by me.
MRS. SHORT. (taking her work and sitting at table, L.) Very well, what shall we chat about?
SHORT. Don’t sit so far off. (he is about to rise to go nearer to her, but sinks back again into the chair) There’s my leg again! Weugh!—what a grinder!—I haven’t got rid of my gout yet. (about to rise)
MRS. SHORT. (running to him with footstool) Don’t get up! Don’t get up! you’ll hurt yourself—here, take this footstool.
SHORT. (rubbing his leg, and putting it on footstool, and then sits, L.) Ah! that’s better! That’s more comfortable! (aside) If that silly fellow, Sweet, could but see me! (aloud) I am as snug now as a bug in a rug—what would poor Sweet give to exchange places with me—this spring cushion instead of a hard saddle, and his leg up at his ease!—talking of him reminds me you haven’t told me who’s their friend this morning? (she seems to hesitate) What don’t you know?
MRS. SHORT. (confused) Yes, oh yes—Mr. Billington, I believe.
SHORT. Oh, Mr. Billington is it—a friend of the Sweet’s—let’s see, we dine there to-day—a remarkably nice young man that Mr. Billington—he is particularly civil to me lately whenever he meets me in the City—I am sure nothing could be more polite and attentive than his behaviour to us that night at the Sweet’s, in town just before we came down here—by the bye, how is it he never comes to our house?
MRS. SHORT. (confused) Why—I—I—never asked him—you know you are so much away from home—I am so often alone that I—