“At present, Sir,” said Cecilia, “we are all going out of town; the carriage is waiting at the door, and therefore—”
“No such thing,” cried he; “Sha'n't go; come for you myself; take you to my own house. Got every thing ready, been to the broker's, bought a nice blanket, hardly a brack in it. Pick up a table soon; one in my eye.”
“I am sorry you have so totally mistaken me, Sir; for I am now going into the country with Mr and Mrs Delvile.”
“Won't consent, won't consent! what will you go there for? hear of nothing but dead dukes; as well visit an old tomb.”
Here Mr Delvile, who felt himself insulted in a manner he could least support, after looking at him very disdainfully, turned to Cecilia, and said “Miss Beverley, if this person wishes for a longer conference with you, I am sorry you did not appoint a more seasonable hour for your interview.”
“Ay, ay,” cried the impenetrable Mr Briggs; “want to hurry her off! see that! But 't won't do; a'n't to be nicked; chuse to come in for my thirds; won't be gulled, sha'n't have more than your share.”
“Sir!” cried Mr Delvile, with a look meant to be nothing less than petrific.
“What!” cried he, with an arch leer; “all above it, hay? warrant your Spanish Don never thinks of such a thing! don't believe 'em my duck! great cry and little wool; no more of the ready than other folks; mere puff and go one.”
“This is language, Sir,” said Mr Delvile, “so utterly incomprehensible, that I presume you do not even intend it should be understood; otherwise, I should very little scruple to inform you, that no man of the name of Delvile brooks the smallest insinuation of dishonour.”
“Don't he?” returned Mr Briggs, with a grin; “why how will he help it? will the old grandees jump up out of their graves to frighten us?”