“I think, aunt, that Sir John, according to Sir John, doth make of Sir John a creature so unjustly defamed that one might look to see Sir John sprout wings to waft good Sir John from this so wicked world. And pray, Sir John, may we ask to what we owe the unexpected honour of your presence here?”
“Alas, madam,” he sighed, “to what but matrimony! I am here in the matter of marriage.”
The Duchess gasped and strove to rise, but her niece’s compelling hand restrained her.
“Pray, sir, whose marriage?”
“My own, madam. You behold me ready to wed you how, when and where you will.”
“Oh, then,” quavered the Duchess, “oh, pray, sir, ere you continue—I’ll begone.... Herminia, suffer me to rise——”
“Nay, dear aunt, rather shall you suffer along with me——”
“Loose me, love!” implored the Duchess. “Unhand me, Herminia; I will not remain.... I cannot—so awkward for Sir John ... for me! Oh, horrors, Herminia!”
“Horrors indeed, dear aunt, but we’ll bear ’em together.”
“But—O child! A proposal—and I here! So indelicate! I’m all of a twitter, I vow!”