MAR. That’s right.
JOE. I’m going up to a place in London. You see, mother knows somebody there, and as I didn’t care much about farming, and always had a kind o’ sort o’ notion of being a bit of a gentleman, why, they said I was cut out for sarvice, and the end of it is, I’m going to London to be page to a fine lady.
MAR. Lord, Joe!
JOE. The very thing for a genteel youth like me, they say. I ain’t to wear these clothes then. No, I’m to be all over buttons, and have a hat with gold lace, and my hair is to be curled every morning, and I’m to carry letters in to missus on a silver plate, and walk arter her with the lap-dog in the street, and take care nobody’s sarcy to her.
MAR. Can’t you stop here a day or two before you go to your place? we would have such fun—for though my husband has often said that none of my family must come here, as he wanted me to forget all their ways, yet as you are here, I think I could coax him to let you stop. Sit down, Joe—here’s a chair. Well, and so—and how’s your mother?
JOE. Hearty.
MAR. And what’s the news?—tell me all you can think of. Has Tom Dixon married Lizzey Turvey yet?
JOE. No; they were going to be married only a week ago, and when they got to the church Tom took fright and ran all the way home again, and left Lizzey Turvey crying her eyes out at the porch door.
MAR. You don’t say so! Well, I always said Tom was a fool. Come close, Joe, don’t be shy—and, oh Joe! how comfortable this is, to have somebody to talk to in one’s own fashion! I do feel so free and easy again! Well, and tell me, Joe, is Dame Willows living?
JOE. No—died six months ago.