“May my leg always ache, if I do,” said the postillion, patting his leg with his hand; “will you persuade me that this young man has never been at college?”
“I have never been at college, but—”
“Ay, ay,” said the postillion; “but—”
“I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of a celebrated one in Ireland.”
“Well, then, it comes to the same thing,” said the postillion; “or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college—and your governor?”
“My governor, as you call him,” said I, “is dead.”
“And his borough interest?”
“My father had no borough interest,” said I; “had he possessed any, he would perhaps not have died as he did, honourably poor.”
“No, no,” said the postillion; “if he had had borough interest, he wouldn’t have been poor, nor honourable, though perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with you.”
“I was never at boarding-school,” said Belle, “unless you call—”