“You seem to be in prodigious fine spirits this morning, brother Pierre,” said his mother.
“Yes, very tolerable; at least I can’t say, that I am low-spirited exactly, sister Mary;—Dates, my fine fellow, bring me three bowls of milk.”
“One bowl, sir, you mean,” said Dates, gravely and imperturbably.
As the servitor left the room, Mrs. Glendinning spoke. “My dear Pierre, how often have I begged you never to permit your hilariousness to betray you into overstepping the exact line of propriety in your intercourse with servants. Dates’ look was a respectful reproof to you just now. You must not call Dates, My fine fellow. He is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, indeed; but there is no need of telling him so at my table. It is very easy to be entirely kind and pleasant to servants, without the least touch of any shade of transient good-fellowship with them.”
“Well, sister, no doubt you are altogether right; after this I shall drop the fine, and call Dates nothing but fellow;—Fellow, come here!—how will that answer?”
“Not at all, Pierre—but you are a Romeo, you know, and so for the present I pass over your nonsense.”
“Romeo! oh, no. I am far from being Romeo—” sighed Pierre. “I laugh, but he cried; poor Romeo! alas Romeo! woe is me, Romeo! he came to a very deplorable end, did Romeo, sister Mary.”
“It was his own fault though.”
“Poor Romeo!”
“He was disobedient to his parents.”