Never having been able during fifty years to make up his mind whether his mistresses should be addressed as maidens or matrons, Timothy has compromised matters by putting a "miss" and a "ma'am" into every sentence he dedicates to them.
"Ah, an invitation from Captain Cobbett for Friday next—um—um—four to seven—um—um. All of us invited, even Kit," says Miss Priscilla, in a decidedly lively tone.
"Me! am I asked?" cries Kit, excitedly.
"Yes, indeed, you are specially mentioned. Very nice and attentive, I must say, of those young men, particularly when we have not shown them any kindness as yet. I thought that Mr. Ryde a very superior young fellow, with none of the discourteous antipathy to age that disfigures the manners of the youth of the present day. Penelope, my dear, perhaps you had better indite the answer to this. Yours is the pen of a ready writer."
"Very well," says Miss Penelope, rising slowly—Oh! so slowly! thinks Monica—and going towards the davenport.
"Is the soldier outside, Timothy?" asks Miss Priscilla.
"Yes, miss. He said he wanted a bit of writing from ye for the captain."
"It is a long ride. Take him downstairs, Timothy, and give him some beer, while Miss Penelope prepares a reply."
"Begging your pardon, miss, and with due respect to ye, ma'am, but he's that stiff in his manners, an' tight in his clothes, I doubt if he'd condescend to enter the kitchen."
"Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, with much displeasure, "you have been having hot words with this stranger. What is it all about?"