You must not be too nice, as I observed before.
(Mrs. —— rings the bell.)
Enter Servant.
Mrs. ——. Is dinner ready?
Mr. (Looking round.)—The chops are, I'm sure.
Adam. It is dishing now, ma'am.
(A crash heard as if an accident.)
Mr. —— Dishing indeed—I fear it's dished.
Dinner—all seated.
Mrs. ——. Will any body take soup?
Mr. ——. What, before grace, you graceless rogues. There's no parson here, I see; though we are not without some of the cloth. Well, I'll say it—grace at dinner is meet.
[A universal laugh. The sight of dinner is a breeder of good-humour.]
Take care to have the salt-cellars put on the table empty.
Mr. ——. Why what the devil's this—no salt!
Mrs. ——. (As planned.)—You have salt enough, I'm sure, my dear.
Mr. ——. "Ego punior ipse," Ovid. Very well, very well! my wife is not amiss: but the salt, Adam.
Adam. Sir, the house-keeper's gone out, and I don't know where to get any.
Mr. ——. Why an't here four salt sellers?