Norval did not quite see it—“I don’t feel old,” he said.
“How can I know how you feel,” replied the old lady, “when you won’t bump me? Oh!” she added, screwing up her lips and clasping her hands, “I do love a bumper! Is your name Tom?”
“No,” said Norval.
SCARCELY APARIENT.
“That’s a pity; there’s no bumper like an old Tom; he’s a noble spirit, always ginoowine.”
“I can’t follow you,” said Norval.
“And did I say I wanted you to follow me? Gals have no followers here; I only wanted my regular bump.”
Norval having a grandfather who was fond of phrenology, had picked up a smattering, and was just going to say that he thought it was only silly people that wanted regular bumps, when suddenly the old lady called out, “Where are my pears? there were four of them.”
Jaques and Ranulf, who had picked up the apples, had been standing ready to hand them back to her ever so long.