Charles. Five into five once—into seven, once and two over—into twenty-six, five times and one over—and into ten twice. A pound would kill about eleven hundred and fifty-two able-bodied men.
Twitters (to himself). Twelve times eleven hundred and—good heavens. (Sinks into chair.)
Clara. Charles is going to breakfast with us, papa dear.
Twitters. Charles! What do you mean by speaking of Dr. Squillcox by his Christian name?
Clara. Why—you do, papa dear.
Twitters. Yes; but I’m not a marriageable young woman.
Clara (to Charles). You had better speak, dear.
Charles. Mr. Twitters—the fact is—
Clara. Yes, papa; the fact is—
Twitters. The fact is, young man, that you have come here before cock-crow, pretending to bring the mail to me—gauzy pretext—