“Will you hold your tongue, Molly! You’ve got a worse clack than your mother had.”
“Then do come and do the proper. You kneel down, Syd, and I’ll lean on your shoulder. I ain’t going to spoil my dress for nobody, not even a cross old dad. That’s right. Down on your knees, Syd.”
“Shan’t. I want to put my arm round you.”
“Very well; that’ll do. Now then, come on, daddy, and say: ‘Bless you, my children!’ Curtain.”
“What? What d’yer mean by ‘curtain?’ You hold your tongue, miss. Now, Mr Sydney Smithers. Smithers! There’s a name for a respectable girl to want to take!”
“Well, hang it!” cried the boy, “it’s better than Simpkins.”
“Not it,” growled the owner of the latter; but he scratched his head, as if in doubt. “Be quiet, Molly. Now, Mr Smithers, I mean my gal to have her rights.”
“Yes, Mr Simpkins.”
“Get it over, Syd.”
“Yes, sir; I quite agree with you.”