‘What are they talking about?’ inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself.
‘About the land, grandma.’
‘What about the land?—Nothing the matter, is there?’
‘No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins’s Meadows.’
‘How should he know anything about it?’ inquired the old lady indignantly. ‘Miller’s a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so.’ Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent.
‘Come, come,’ said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, ‘what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?’
‘I should like it of all things,’ replied that gentleman; ‘but pray don’t make up one on my account.’
‘Oh, I assure you, mother’s very fond of a rubber,’ said Mr. Wardle; ‘ain’t you, mother?’
The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied in the affirmative.
‘Joe, Joe!’ said the gentleman; ‘Joe—damn that—oh, here he is; put out the card-tables.’