Nutts. I think, Mrs Nutts, you’d better look to your pudding, and never listen about babies.
Mrs Nutts. Not listen about babies! Well, I’m sure—dear creturs!—we’re troubled enough with ’em. Never mind Nutts, Mr Tickle—he never deserved the babies he’s got.
Nutts. No! but how rewards do rain upon some men! Well, make haste; read all about the baby, Tickle, or—well, it is odd—but you never can even start a baby without bringing a woman about with you.
Tickle. Very proper, too. You see, Mrs Nutts, the ’Bassador’s baby is made Duke of Santa Isabel. He hasn’t done sucking his thumb yet; but he’s a duke, for all that. Made a duke because his father got the Infanta made a wife—a wife at fourteen, Mrs Nutts!
Mrs Nutts. At fourteen! Well, where do they expect to go to? And the baby’s a grandee?
Tickle. Of the first water; and as such—I’ve read it all afore and will tell it you short—as such, he can’t have a single day out from Spain without the Queen’s leave! And then, agin, he can’t marry—can’t give his heart away, as you did, Mrs Nutts——
Mrs Nutts. There! no rubbish!—go on with the child.
Tickle. Baby can’t give away his heart and get married, if the Queen doesn’t like the young ’oman.
Mrs Nutts. Little sufferer!
Tickle. But now comes the honour and glory. Baby may keep his hat on in the presence of the Sov’ran of Spain!