‘And where do you live, Marchioness?’
‘Live!’ cried the small servant. ‘Here!’
‘Oh!’ said Mr Swiveller.
And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had been shot. Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech, until she had finished her meal, put everything in its place, and swept the hearth; when he motioned her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being propped up again, opened a farther conversation.
‘And so,’ said Dick, ‘you have run away?’
‘Yes,’ said the Marchioness, ‘and they’ve been a tizing of me.’
‘Been—I beg your pardon,’ said Dick—‘what have they been doing?’
‘Been a tizing of me—tizing you know—in the newspapers,’ rejoined the Marchioness.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Dick, ‘advertising?’
The small servant nodded, and winked. Her eyes were so red with waking and crying, that the Tragic Muse might have winked with greater consistency. And so Dick felt.