“I fear my Dulcinea differs from the herd, then; for she quarrelled with me for supping with St. John three nights ago, and—”
“St. John,” interrupted Fielding, cutting me off in the beginning of a witticism, “St. John, famous fellow, is he not? By the Lord, we will drink to his administration, you in chocolate, I in Madeira. O’Carroll, you dog,—O’Carroll—rogue—rascal—ass—dolt!”
“The same, your honour,” said the orange-coloured lacquey, thrusting in his lean visage.
“Ay, the same indeed, thou anatomized son of Saint Patrick; why dost thou not get fat? Thou shamest my good living, and thy belly is a rascally minister to thee, devouring all things for itself, without fattening a single member of the body corporate. Look at me, you dog, am I thin? Go and get fat, or I will discharge thee: by the Lord I will! the sun shines through thee like an empty wineglass.”
“And is it upon your honour’s lavings you would have me get fat?” rejoined Mr. O’Carroll, with an air of deferential inquiry.
“Now, as I live, thou art the impudentest varlet!” cried Mr. Fielding, stamping his foot on the floor, with an angry frown.
“And is it for talking of your honour’s lavings? an’ sure that’s nothing at all, at all,” said the valet, twirling his thumbs with expostulating innocence.
“Begone, rascal!” said Mr. Fielding, “begone; go to the Salop, and bring us a pint of Madeira, a toast, and a dish of chocolate.”
“Yes, your honour, in a twinkling,” said the valet, disappearing.
“A sorry fellow,” said Mr. Fielding, “but honest and faithful, and loves me as well as a saint loves gold; ‘tis his love makes him familiar.”