"Then—confound it all, Baxter!—why aren't you surprised?"
"I am quite—over-come, sir!" said Baxter, stooping to recover the salt-spoon which had slipped to the floor.
"Consequently," pursued Bellew, "I am—er—broken-hearted, as I told you—"
"Certainly, sir."
"Crushed, despondent, and utterly hopeless, Baxter, and shall be, henceforth, pursued by the—er—Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been."
"Very natural, sir, indeed!"
"I could have hoped, Baxter, that, having served me so long,—not to mention my father, you would have shown just a—er shade more feeling in the matter."
"And if you were to ask me,—as between man and man sir,—why I don't show more feeling, then, speaking as the old servant of your respected father, Master George, sir,—I should beg most respectfully to say that regarding the lady in question, her conduct is not in the least surprising, Miss Marchmont being a beauty, and aware of the fact, Master George. Referring to your heart, sir, I am ready to swear that it is not even cracked. And now, sir,—what clothes do you propose to wear this morning?"
"And pray, why should you be so confident of regarding the—er—condition of my heart?"
"Because, sir,—speaking as your father's old servant, Master George, I make bold to say that I don't believe that you have ever been in love, or even know what love is, Master George, sir."