Stanhope. We study different things; we read, we converse.
Englishman. Very pretty amusement indeed! Are you to take orders then?
Stanhope. Yes, my father’s orders, I believe I must take.
Englishman. Why hast thou no more spirit, than to mind an old fellow a thousand miles off?
Stanhope. If I don’t mind his orders he won’t mind my draughts.
Englishman. What, does the old prig threaten then? threatened folks live long; never mind threats.
Stanhope. No, I can’t say that he has ever threatened me in his life; but I believe I had best not provoke him.
Englishman. Pooh! you would have one angry letter from the old fellow, and there would be an end of it.
Stanhope. You mistake him mightily; he always does more than he says. He has never been angry with me yet, that I remember, in his life; but if I were to provoke him, I am sure he would never forgive me; he would be coolly immovable, and I might beg and pray, and write my heart out to no purpose.
Englishman. Why, then, he is an old dog, that’s all I can say; and pray are you to obey your dry-nurse too, this same, and what’s his name—Mr. Harte?