“Why, you blessed little goose and angel,” said Thatcher, with the bold, mixed metaphor of amatory genius, “don't you see—”
“Ah, you don't like it,—it is not good?”
“My darling!”
“Hoosh! There is also an 'old cat' up stairs. And now I have here a character. WILL you sit down? Is it of a necessity that up and down you should walk and awaken the whole house? There!”—she had given him a vicious dab with her fan as he passed. He sat down.
“And you have not seen me nor written to me for a year?”
“Carmen!”
“Sit down, you bold, bad boy. Don't you see it is of business that you and I talk down here; and it is of business that ozzer people up stairs are thinking. Eh?”
“D—n business! See here, Carmen, my darling, tell me”—I regret to say he had by this time got hold of the back of Carmen's chair—“tell me, my own little girl,—about—about that Senator. You remember what you said to him?”
“Oh, the old man? Oh, THAT was business. And you say of business, 'd—n.'”
“Carmen!”