Weasel. She always feeds that fat little dog herself, your honour. She gives it slices of bread and strawberry jam. But she’s a good young Lady, Sir. Often I sees her going to the cottages with her little pink bag filled with the good things which Mrs. Judith makes. (I knows that from Mrs. Marjory who has to wash out the grease-spots every day for Miss Sophy.) And there she goes mincing along with her long veil hanging behind, and her little poodle running on before her. But may I make bold to ask how Master Stumply is? He was a very little boy when....
Col. Not a word of him, Weasel, not a word of him! He’s a wayward ... don’t speak of him! folly and indiscretion have been his bane.
Weasel. [Shaking his head.] There’s some others I know seem running the same road.
Col. How? Who?
Weasel. O, it is not for me to say, your honour.
Col. Speak; explain yourself.
Weasel. I dare say ’twas all a frolic, your honour, but there were odd doings here yesterday.
Col. Tell me, tell me.
Weasel. [Mysteriously.] Perhaps as an old friend of the Family your honour ought to know all, and such a rum affair....
Col. Go on, go on.