"Sticks like wax, I should say."
"Quite like wax, Lord Giblet. And when she makes up her mind to do a thing she always does it. It's quite wonderful; but she never gets beaten."
"Doesn't she now?"
"Never. She hasn't asked us to Killancodlem yet, but I hope she will." A manly resolution now roused itself in Lord Giblet's bosom that he would be the person to beat Mrs. Jones at last. But yet he doubted. If he were asked the question by anyone having a right to ask he could not deny that he had proposed to marry Miss Patmore Green.
"So you've come down to singe your wings again?" said Mrs. Houghton to her cousin Jack.
"My wings have been burned clean away already, and, in point of fact, I am not half so near to Lady George here as I was in London."
"It's only ten miles."
"If it were five it would be the same. We're not in the same set down in Barsetshire."
"I suppose you can have yourself taken to Brotherton if you please?"
"Yes,—I can call at the deanery; but I shouldn't know what to say when I got there."