“Now, then, Rosie,” shouted Uncle Gutton, who appeared to have constituted himself master of the ceremonies, “don't stand about, my girl; you'll get tired.”
Left to herself, I am inclined to think my fiancee would have spared me; but Uncle Gutton, having been invited to a love comedy, was not to be cheated of any part of the performance, and the audience clearly being with him, there was nothing for it but compliance. I seated myself, and amid plaudits accommodated the ample and heavy Rosina upon my knee.
“Good-bye,” called out to me the watery-eyed young man, as behind the fair Rosina I disappeared from his view. “See you again later on.”
“I used to be a plump girl myself before I married,” observed Aunt Gutton. “Plump as butter I was at one time.”
“It isn't what one eats,” said the maternal Sellars. “I myself don't eat enough to keep a fly, and my legs—”
“That'll do, Mar,” interrupted the filial Sellars, tartly.
“I was only going to say, my dear—”
“We all know what you was going to say, Mar,” retorted Miss Sellars. “We've heard it before, and it isn't interesting.”
Mrs. Sellars relapsed into silence.
“'Ard work and plenty of it keeps you thin enough, I notice,” remarked the lank young man, with bitterness. To him I was now introduced, he being Mr. George Sellars. “Seen 'im before,” was his curt greeting.