“Faith of a woman, no, sare; I only look on, and see and say noding at all.”
“By George, Justine, you’ve been a trump! and I’ll give you a ring for this.”
“Then give me dat one now, sare,” said Justine, sharply, as she pointed to the signet on Tom’s finger.
“But that’s too big and ugly for you, my girl. It is a gentleman’s ring.”
“Ma foi, Milor Thomas, do I not tell you I have a gentleman?”
“Then you’re going to marry old waxworks.”
“No, no, sare, I go to be Madame Launay when we return; and if Milor Tom do require my help—a thank you, ze ring is charmant—you shall say to me, ‘Justine, her ladyship go to marry la belle Ma’amselle Tryphie to Sir Viltaire,’ I am at your sairvice, for I am the guardian of her ladyship’s secret, but vive l’amour.”
“Vive l’amour, Justine,” cried Tom, giving her a kiss.
“Bad, weeked lil mans. But I forgive you. I go to her ladyship. Au revoir.”
“Charley, old fellow,” said Viscount Diphoos before they parted for the night, “hang me if I don’t stick to that organ, and have it on a stand in my room; and so long as I am at home, every time the old girl gets in one of her tantrums, I’ll go and turn the handle till she comes and makes a truce.”