"And what is it you want, Maryanne?"
"Well; I'll tell you what I want. My dear sainted mother's last wish was that—I should become Mrs. Brisket!"
"And do you mean to say," said Robinson—"do you mean to say that that is now your wish?" And he looked at her till the audacity even of her eyes sank beneath the earnestness of his own. But though for the moment he quelled her eye, nothing could quell her voice.
"I mean to say," said she, speaking loudly, and with her arms akimbo, "that William Brisket is a very respectable young man, with a trade,—that he's got a decent house for a young woman to live in, and a decent table for her to sit at. And he's always been brought up decent, having been a regular 'prentice to his uncle, and all that sort of thing. He's never been wandering about like a vagrant, getting his money nobody knows how. William Brisket's as well known in Aldersgate Street as the Post Office. And moreover," she added, after a pause, speaking these last words in a somewhat milder breath—"And moreover, it was my sainted mother's wish!"
"Then go to him!" said Robinson, rising suddenly, and stretching out his arm against her. "Go to him, and perform your—sainted mother's wish! Go to the—butcher! Revel in his shambles, and grow fat and sleek in his slaughter-house! From this moment George Robinson will fight the world alone. Brisket, indeed! If it be accounted manliness to have killed hecatombs of oxen, let him be called manly!"
"He would have pretty nigh killed you, young man, on one occasion, if you hadn't made yourself scarce."
"By heavens!" exclaimed Robinson, "if he'll come forth, I'll fight him to-morrow;—with cleavers, if he will!"
"George, George, don't say that," exclaimed Mr. Brown. "'Let dogs delight to bark and bite.'"
"You needn't be afraid," said Maryanne. "He doesn't mean fighting," and she pointed to Robinson. "William would about eat him, you know, if they were to come together."
"Heaven forbid!" said Mr. Brown.