“Oh, don’t send me away, please, dear,” she whispered; “it isn’t one of those horrid cases you have sometimes, and I do so want to hear.”
“Very well; only don’t speak.”
“No, my dear, not a word,” whispered Mrs Wilton, and she half closed her eyes and pinched her lips together, but her ears twitched as she sat waiting anxiously for the return of the footman, followed by the groom, who seemed to have had no little trouble in pushing and dragging a rough-looking lout of about eighteen into the room, where he stood with his smock frock raised on each side so as to allow his hands to be thrust deeply into his trousers pockets.
“Take your hat off,” said Samuel, in a sharp whisper.
“Sheeawn’t!” said the fellow, defiantly. “I arn’t done nothin’.”
Samuel promptly knocked the hat off on to the floor, which necessitated a hand being taken slowly from a pocket to pick it up.
“Here, don’t you do that ag’in,” cried the lad.
“Silence, sir. Stand up,” cried Wilton.
“Mayn’t I pick up my hat? I arn’t done nothin’.”
“Say ‘sir’,” whispered the footman.