Slowgoe. Humph! For my part I can’t think where the ’noxial gales are gone to: they ought to blow people back to London by this time. But nothing is as it was.
Tickle. Rum thing this at Margate. And quite a warning to young women.
Mrs Nutts. What’s that, Mr Tickle?
Tickle. Young lady of most respectable family—father in the Excise—turned to a mermaid.
Mrs Nutts. Nonsense! it can’t be. What for?
Tickle. Because she would dance the polka close inshore, and make so many people write to the Times. Now she’s punished; now she’s enough o’ bathing. Now she does nothing but sing songs, comb her hair, and stare at herself in a looking-glass.
Nutts. Well, for a young woman that can be no punishment.
Mrs Nutts. Mr Nutts, you’re a fool. (Retires.)
Nutts. As you’re all family men, gentlemen, you understand that. And yet I never could make it out why the tenderest of wives have the greatest knack of calling their husbands fools.
Tickle. Bless you! it’s only too much love speaking out. Just as a saucepan, when too hot, boils over.