Weasel. Much the same as usual, your honour. Our only varieties are Dr. Daresby and the rheumatics; till last night when....
Col. The girls—the young Ladies seem much grown, much improved.
Weasel. O, for the matter of that, yes, though Miss Ratty’s sadly taken up with the books, d’ye see. She’s poring all day long over a lot of different sorts of learnings; I don’t remember their names, but they all ends in oddity. Then she’s an out and out Jacobite, and thumps the piano when she sings ‘Charlie is my darling,’ as though she took it for a Whig. Indeed, your honour, last night....
Col. And Miss Barbara?
Weasel. She’s quiet like, Sir. She’s never off her chair stitching away. They says, your honour, that she makes holes on purpose to sew them up again, d’ye see?
Col. Sophy—Miss Rattleton is a charming girl.
Weasel. Ah, so thinks some one else. Did your honour ever see young Dr. Daresby?
Col. No, what of him?
Weasel. O, nothing, Sir. But they walks alone together, and sings duets together, and he gave her the little poodle, and they says, your honour, d’ye see....
Col. Yes, yes, I understand.