“I imagine not Sir—I imagine not,” said Mr. Pickwick in a very peremptory tone.
Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter; so he looked grave, and said they were a very pretty pattern.
“I hope they are,” said Mr. Pickwick fixing his eyes upon his friend. “You see nothing extraordinary in these stockings, as stockings, I trust Sir?”
“Certainly not—oh certainly not,” replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away; and Mr. Pickwick’s countenance resumed its customary benign expression.
“We are all ready, I believe,” said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four false starts, in his excessive anxiety to commence.
“Then begin at once,” said Wardle. “Now.”
Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry of “Stop, stop.”
“What’s the matter?” said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by the fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other earthly power, if the house had been on fire.
“Where’s Arabella Allen?” said a dozen voices.
“And Winkle!” added Mr. Tupman.