BLEN. What?
SIR W. I’m ashamed to tell you—Margery.
BLEN. Margery?
SIR W. I have tried to persuade her to change it to Matilda, or Magaretta, or Marguerite, but all in vain—she says her mother’s name was Margery, her grandmother’s name was Margery, that her name is Margery, and Margery she’ll be to the end of the chapter.
MARGERY. (without) Now, come along, Jack! and you, Tom, mind how you carry my kitten.
Enter MARGERY from the back, in a fashionably-made dress, but which she wears awkwardly—She is followed by TWO SERVANTS.
MAR. Now, Jack, mind what I say—how many pigs is there in the last litter? Oh, I know—eight! Well, you may send one to my cousin Joe—I’ll tell you where he lives by and by—two to my old dad, and one to Betsy Buncle, my old playfellow in Lancashire—the three black ones I shall want to have in the parlor to play with.
SIR W. Pigs in the parlor to play with? Lady Evergreen, do you not perceive a visitor?
MAR. Wait a minute—I’ll speak to him presently. Do as I bid you; and you, Tom, give my kitten her lunch, and turn all the young terriers loose on the grass plot, because I like to see ’em tumble over one another—and now go.
Exit SERVANTS at back.