Wid. (Aside.) A heap of rubbish.
Mary. And you know, Widgy, dear, when we enter that happy state——
Wid. What state do you allude to, Miss White?
Mary. The marriage state, of course.
Wid. Oh, indeed. Ah!
Mary. You don’t forget, I hope, that I have your promissory note on the back of twenty-nine unpaid washing bills to make me your lawful wife. (Produces several papers.) There they are—and there’s the last of them. (Reads.) “Six months after date I promise to marry Miss Mary White.” There, sir, you’re due next Monday.
Wid. Am I! Then I’m afraid I sha’n’t be prepared to take myself up. I’ll let myself be protested.
Mary. No, you sha’n’t; you’ve been protested often enough. I can’t be put off any longer, and understand me, Mr. Widgetts, I won’t neither.
Wid. (Aside.) There’s a savage hymeneal look in her eye that makes me shiver in my Alberts. I must soothe her a little or I shall have a scene. Why, Mary, my dear, now don’t be angry, you know it’s one of my jokes.
Mary. Well, you’d better not try any more of them, for I don’t like them. No woman does.