“That’s right, my dear, don’t; there’s no curing you. Recollect the motto you chose in preference to mine.”
“Well, and a very proper one—‘Too much familiarity breeds contempt’—is it not so, Master Faithful?”
“Yes, madam, it was one of our copies at school.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, it was my hown hinvention.”
Rap, tap, rap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
“Mr and Mrs Peters, of Petercumb Hall,” announced the butler. Enter Mrs Peters first, a very diminutive lady, and followed by Mr Peters, six feet four inches without his shoes, deduct for stooping and curved shoulders seven inches. Mr Peters had retired from the Stock Exchange with a competence, bought a place, named it Petercumb Hall, and set up his carriage. Another knock, and Mr and Mrs Drummond were announced. Compliments exchanged, and a pastile lighted by Mrs Turnbull.
“Well, Drummond,” said Mr Turnbull, “what are coals worth now?”
“Mr Turnbull, I’ve got such an ’eadache.”
This was of course a matter of condolence from all present, and a stopper upon Mr Turnbull’s tongue.
Another sounding rap, and a pause. “Monsieur and Madame de Tagliabue coming up.” Enter Monsieur and Madame de Tagliabue. The former, a dapper little Frenchman, with a neat pair of legs, and stomach as round as a pea. Madame sailing in like an outward-bound East Indiaman, with studding sails below and aloft; so large in her dimensions, that her husband might be compared to the pilot-boat plying about her stern.