He had been at White’s ball, given in town upon his majesty’s recovery. We begged some account of it: he ranted away with great fluency, uttering little queer sarcasms at Mrs. Schwellenberg by every opportunity, and colouring when he had done, with private fear of enraging her. This, however, she suspected not, or all his aim had been lost; for to alarm her is his delight.
“I liked it all,” he said, in summing up his relation, “very well, except the music, and I like any caw-caw-caw, better than that sort of noise,—only you must not tell the king I say that, ma’am, because the king likes it.”
She objected to the words “must not,” and protested she would not be directed by no one, and would tell it, if she pleased.
Upon this, he began a most boisterous threatening of the evil consequences which would accrue to herself, though in so ludicrous a manner, that how she could suppose him serious was my wonder. “Take care of yourself, ma’am,” he cried, holding up his finger as if menacing a child; “take care of yourself! I am not to be provoked twice!”
This, after a proud resistance, conquered her and, really frightened at she knew not what, she fretfully exclaimed, “Ver well, sir!—I wish I had not come down! I won’t no more! you might have your tea when you can get It.”
Returning to his account, he owned he had been rather a little musical himself for once, which was when they all sang “God save the king,” after the supper; for then he joined in the chorus, as well and as loud as any of them, “though some of the company,” he added, “took the liberty to ask me not to be so loud, because they pretended I was out of tune; but it was in such a good cause that I did not mind that.”
She was no sooner recovered than the attack became personal again; and so it has continued ever since: he seems bent upon “playing her off” in all manners; he braves her, then compliments her, assents to her opinion, and the next moment contradicts her; pretends uncommon friendship for her, and then laughs in her face. But his worst manoeuvre is a perpetual application to me, by looks and sly glances, which fill me with terror of passing for an accomplice; and the more, as I find it utterly impossible to keep grave during these absurdities. And yet, the most extraordinary part of the story is that she really likes him! though at times she is so angry, she makes vows to keep to her own room.
Mr. George Villiers, with far deeper aim, sneers out his own more artful satire, but is never understood; while Colonel Manners domineers with so high a hand, he carries all before him; and whenever Mrs. Schwellenberg, to lessen her mortification, draws me into the question, he instantly turns off whatever she begins into some high-flown compliment, so worded also as to convey some comparative reproach. This offends more than all.
When she complains to me of him, in his absence, I answer he is a mere schoolboy, for mischief, without serious design of displeasing: but she tells me she sees he means to do her some harm, and she will let the king know, if he goes on at that rate, for she does not choose such sort of familiarness.
Once she apologised suddenly for her English, and Colonel Manners said, “O, don’t mind that, ma’am, for I take no particular notice as to your language.”