Coddle. Charming! Overflowing with intellect. Never again disbelieve in special providences. (Signs to Whitwell to sit down.)
Whitwell (points to easy-chair). After you, venerable sir.
Coddle. The manners of a prince of the blood! Kind Heaven, I thank thee! (Both sit.)
Jane. Deary me, deary me! A pair of posts, like, and nary a trumpet between ’em, except me.
Coddle (looks at Whitwell). Young man, you look surprised at the interest I take in you.
Whitwell. No, sir, I prefer shad.
Coddle. What does he say? (Jumps up.) Jane, who knows but he’s already married! (Sits, shouts.) Have you a wife?
Whitwell. Yes, sir; always with a knife.
Jane (shouts). Have you a wife? A wife?
Whitwell. All my life? Yes.