‘P. my dear—’ interposed Mrs. Pott.
‘My life—’ said the editor.
‘I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation in which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.’
‘But, my love,’ said Mr. Pott, with great humility, ‘Mr. Pickwick does take an interest in it.’
‘It’s well for him if he can,’ said Mrs. Pott emphatically; ‘I am wearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the Independent, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your making such an exhibition of your absurdity.’
‘But, my dear—’ said Mr. Pott.
‘Oh, nonsense, don’t talk to me,’ said Mrs. Pott. ‘Do you play ecarte, Sir?’
‘I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,’ replied Mr. Winkle.
‘Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of hearing of those prosy politics.’
‘Jane,’ said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, ‘go down into the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for eighteen hundred and twenty-six. I’ll read you,’ added the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick—‘I’ll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I rather think they’ll amuse you.’