“'John Anderson my Jo, John,'” muttered he, half aloud.
“'We've climbed the hill toge-ge-ge-ther,'” chimed in Purvis, with a cackle.
“Gather what, sir? Blackberries, was it?” cried Haggerstone.
“Don't quote that low-lived creature,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “a poet only conversant with peasants and their habits. Let us talk of our own order. What of these poor Onslows?”
“Sir Stafford dines at two, madam. A cutlet, a vegetable, and a cherry tart; two glasses of Gordon's sherry, and a cup of coffee.”
“Without milk. I had it from Proctor,” broke in Purvis, who was bursting with jealousy at the accuracy of the other's narrative.
“You mean without sugar, sir,” snapped Haggerstone. “Nobody does take milk-coffee after dinner.”
“I always do,” rejoined Purvis, “when I can't get mara-mara-mara—”
“I hope you can get maraschino down easier than you pronounce it, sir.”
“Be quiet, Scroope,” said his sister; “you always interrupt.”