Tribbledale was never slow to declare that he was brought thither by the overwhelming ardour of his passion. His love for Clara was so old a story, and had been told so often, that the repeating of it required no circumlocution. Had he chanced to meet her in the High Street on a Sunday morning, he would have begun with it at once. "Clara," he said, "will you have me? I know that that other scoundrel is a ruined man."
"Oh, Daniel, you shouldn't hit those as are down."
"Hasn't he been hitting me all the time that I was down? Hasn't he triumphed? Haven't you been in his arms?"
"Laws; no."
"And wasn't that hitting me when I was down, do you think?"
"It never did you any harm."
"Oh, Clara;—if you knew the nature of my love you'd understand the harm. Every time he has pressed your lips I have heard it, though I was in King's Head Court all the time."
"That must be a crammer, Daniel."
"I did;—not with the ears of my head, but with the fibres of my breast."
"Oh;—ah. But, Daniel, you and Sam used to be such friends at the first go off."