"Yes, wasn't it. 'Pon honour it was, and 'pon soul you looks more and more charming every day that I see you."
"Oh you flatterer!"
"No—no. Bar flattering—bar flattering. His Majesty has often said, 'Talk of flattery. Oh dear, Bounce is the man for me. He is right down—straight up-off handed. And no sort of mistake, on—on—on.'"
Another pie converted the oratory of the major into something between a grunt and a sigh.
"But major, I'm afraid that you will regret marrying me. If I convert all I have into money"—the major pricked up his ears—"I could not make of it more than fifty thousand pounds."
The major's eyes opened to the size of pint saucers, as he said—
"Fifty—fift—fif.—Say it again!"
"Fifty thousand pounds."
The major rose and embraced Mrs. Lovett. Tears actually came into his eyes, and gulping down the pie, he cried—
"You have fifty thousand charms. Only let me be your slave, your dog, damme—your dog, Mrs. Lovett, and I shall consider myself the luckiest dog in the world, but not for the money—not for the money. No, as the Marquis of Cleveland once said, 'If you want a thoroughly disinterested man, go to Bounce.'"