“Old Bailey—”
“William dear!”
“Before a jury of her fellow-countrymen, or,—I say, Ant’ny ain’t that wrong?”
“What?” I said, laughing.
“Oh, it ain’t a thing to laugh at, my lad. It’s serious,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head, exhaling, as he did so, a strong smell of hair-oil.
“What is serious?” I said.
“Why, that,” replied Revitts, “I ain’t sure, in a case like that, it oughtn’t to be a jury of matrons.”
“Oh do, pray, hurry him along, Master Antony,” cried Mary piteously. “Whatever is the matter with you to-day, William?”
“I’m married,” he said severely.
“And you don’t wish you weren’t. William, don’t say so, please,” exclaimed Mary pitifully.