“Not I, truly,” replied Sir Robert; “what should I go for?—to see an old woman with never a tooth in her head sitting at the top of the table! Faith, I'd go an hundred miles a day for a month never to see such a sight again.”
“O but you don't know how well she does the honours,” said Morrice; “and for my part, except just at meal times, I always contrive to keep out of her way.”
“I wonder when she intends to die,” said Mr Harrel.
“She's been a long time about it,” cried Sir Robert; “but those tough old cats last for ever. We all thought she was going when Monckton married her; however, if he had not managed like a driveler, he might have broke her heart nine years ago.”
“I am sure I wish he had,” cried Mrs Harrel, “for she's an odious creature, and used always to make me afraid of her.”
“But an old woman,” answered Sir Robert, “is a person who has no sense of decency; if once she takes to living, the devil himself can't get rid of her.”
“I dare say,” cried Morrice, “she'll pop off before long in one of those fits of the asthma. I assure you sometimes you may hear her wheeze a mile off.”
“She'll go never the sooner for that,” said Sir Robert, “for I have got an old aunt of my own, who has been puffing and blowing as if she was at her last gasp ever since I can remember; and for all that, only yesterday, when I asked her doctor when she'd give up the ghost, he told me she might live these dozen years.”
Cecilia was by no means sorry to have this brutal conversation interrupted by the entrance of a servant with a letter for her. She was immediately retiring to read it; but upon the petition of Mr Monckton, who just then came into the room, she only went to a window. The letter was as follows:
To Miss, at his Honour Squire Harrel's—These: