“But,” says she, “Miss Berner might tell me, when I speak it sometimes not quite right, what you call.”
“O dear no, ma’am!” exclaimed he; “Miss Burney is of too mild a disposition for that: she could not correct you strong enough to do you good.”
“Oh!-ver well, sir!” she cried, confounded by his effrontery.
One day she lamented she had been absent when there was so much agreeable company in the house; “And now,” she added, “now that I am come back, here is nobody.—not one!—no society!”
He protested this was not to be endured, and told her that to reckon all us nobody was so bad, he should resent it.
“What will you do, my good colonel?” she cried.
“O ma’am, do?—I will tell Dr. Davis.”
“And who bin he?”
“Why, he’s the master of Eton school, ma’am,” with a thundering bawl in her ears, that made her stop them.
“No, sir!” she cried, indignantly, “I thank you for that, I won’t have no Dr. schoolmaster, what you call! I bin too old for that.”