“And he is so old, and withered, and gouty, and is obliged to drive himself out in a ridiculous donkey-chaise.”
“Now, what does that matter, dear?”
“Not much to you, seemingly.”
“Now, my lovely, don’t—don’t. To think that I might live to see my gal, Betsy Dean, a real countess, and such a one as there ain’t anywhere at court, and she flying in my face and turning her back upon her chances.”
“Mother, do you want to put me in a rage.”
“Not in the street, dear; but do—do—turn back!”
“I shall not.”
“Then I know the reason why,” cried the elder woman.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re thinking of that nasty, poverty-stricken, brown-faced fiddler of a fellow, who hasn’t even the decency to get himself shaved. I declare he looks more like a Jew than a Christian.”