Sir John: No, Bob, not blind—thou’rt merely in love and that is infinitely worse.
Robert: It is, sir!
Sir John: Why, then, go a-wooing, man, go a-wooing and put thyself out o’ thy misery one way or t’other.
Robert: Can’t be done, sir. Misery must be endoored.
Sir John: Because thou’rt forty-five, Bob?
Robert: And she’s scarce twenty turned, sir.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sir John portentously. “Hum!” And, his toilet at last accomplished, he ran lightly down the stair to find awaiting him a most inviting breakfast, of which he made short work, despite Mr. Bunkle’s shocked remonstrances and reproachful looks.
“This here b’iledam, sir,” quoth Mr. Bunkle, caressing the edible in question with the fork of an expert—“this here b’iledam desarves to be ate respectful an’ dooly slow, wi’ thought to every chew an’ a pause betwixt each swaller!”
“Forgive me, Mr. Bunkle,” smiled Sir John as he rose from the table, “but, like the chameleon, I could feed on air—for a time at least! Robert, my holly-stick! I think I will call on our Ancient Mr. Dumbrell. Have ye any message, Bob?”
“None, sir.”