"Come again!" said I.
"Seventy then!" said he, his gloom deepening.
"Once more!" said I.
"A 'undred—one 'undred guineas!" said he, removing his hat to mop at his brow.
"Any more?" I inquired.
"No!" returned the Postilion sulkily, putting on his hat, "I'm done!"
"Did he set the figure at a hundred guineas?" said I.
"'Im—oh! 'e's mad for 'er, 'e is—'e'd ruin 'isself, body and soul, for 'er, 'e would, but I ain't goin' to offer no more; no woman as ever breathed—no matter 'ow 'andsome an' up-standin'—is worth more 'n a 'undred guineas—it ain't as if she was a blood-mare—an' I'm done!"
"Then I wish you good-day!"
"But—just think—a 'undred guineas is a fortun'!"