“That’s you,” she said. “Is your book so funny?”
“Killing,” answered Chesterfield. “’Tis—’tis a tract on drainage.”
“Lord, now—how humoursome! No wonder it makes you roar. But, sure, there’s no laughter in your face. You look as cross as a Good Friday bun.”
“Zounds! I’m amused, I tell you,” he said; “as amused as a dog when a cat arches her back at him.”
“I’ve seen more amused things than that. Come, prithee, leave your book and let us talk. What do you want to read for when a guest is by?”
“O! just to occupy my mind.”
“Put something into nothing, do you mean? Well, ’tis better empty than filled with drainage.”
He laughed, without hilarity, but laid aside his reading.
“Well,” said he; “I am at your service.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And so we’ll make a merry company, we three—the best in the middle and the bread on each side, like a duck sandwich.”