“I admire beauty; but is she like you—in—in—disposition?”
“Lord! no; very superior. Not abominably clever like you, but absurdly good. You shall judge for yourself. Oblige me with your address.”
The doctress wrote her address with a resigned air, as one who had found somebody she had to obey; and, as soon as he had got it, Vizard gave her a sort of nervous shake of the hand, and seemed almost in a hurry to get away from her. But this was his way.
She would have been amazed if she had seen his change of manner the moment he got among his own people.
He burst in on them, crying, “There—the prayers of this congregation are requested for Harrington Vizard, saddled with a virago.”
“Saddled with a virago!” screamed Fanny.
“Saddled with a—!” sighed Zoe, faintly.
“Saddled with a virago FOR LIFE!” shouted Vizard, with a loud defiance that seemed needless, since nobody was objecting violently to his being saddled.
“Look here!” said he, descending all of a sudden to a meek, injured air, which, however, did not last very long, “I was in the garden of Leicester Square, and a young lady turned faint. I observed it, and, instead of taking the hint and cutting, I offered assistance—off my guard, as usual. She declined. I persisted; proposed a glass of wine, or spirit. She declined, but at last let out she was starving.”
“Oh!” cried Zoe.