MY UNCLE GEORGE (a little diffidently, and jingling his spurs). B'gad, and there ye have it, sweet soul—d'ye see—
MY AUNT (smiting him speechless with flashing eye). I—am—not your sweet soul. And as for poor dear Peregrine—
MY UNCLE JERVAS. The poor youth is become altogether too preternaturally dignified, too confounded sober, solemn and sedate for this mundane sphere; he needs more—
UNCLE GEORGE. Brimstone and the devil!
MY AUNT (freezingly). George Vereker!
UNCLE JERVAS. Wholesome ungentleness.
UNCLE GEORGE (hazarding the suggestion). An occasional black eye—bloody nose, d'ye see, Julia, healthy bruise or so—
MY AUNT. Mr. Vereker!
UNCLE GEORGE (groping for whisker). What I mean to say is, Julia, a—ha—hum! (Subsides.)
UNCLE JERVAS. George is exactly right, Julia. Our nephew is well enough in many ways, I'll admit, but corporeally he is no Vereker; he fills the eye but meanly—