Lord Fitz. I spoke, for more than a minute, in the year of the influenza.
Sir Simon. Bless me! the epidemic, perhaps, raging among the members, at the moment.
Lord Fitz. Yes;—they cough'd so loud, I left off in the middle.
Sir Simon. And you never attempted again.
Lord Fitz. I hate to talk much, Sir Simon;—'tis my way; though several don't like it.
Sir Simon. I do. I consider it as a mark of your lordship's discretion. The less you say, my lord, in my mind, the wiser you are; and I have often thought it a pity, that some noble orators hav'n't follow'd your lordship's example.—But, here are the writings. [Sitting down with Lord Fitz Balaam, and taking them from the Table.] We must wave ceremony now, my lord; for all this pile of parchment is built on the independent four thousand a year of your daughter, Lady Caroline, on one hand, and your lordship's incumbrances, on the other.
Lord Fitz. I have saddles on my property, Sir Simon.
Sir. Simon. Which saddles, your lordship's property being uncommonly small, look something like sixteen stone upon a poney. The Fitz Balaam estate, for an earl, is deplorably narrow.
Lord Fitz. Yet, it has given security for a large debt.
Sir Simon. Large, indeed! I can't think how you have contriv'd it. 'Tis the Archbishop of Brobdignag, squeez'd into Tom Thumb's pantaloons.