"Really, now!—well, I don't say!"
"Belle-bouche! Could any thing be finer? 'Pretty-mouth!' And then the play upon Bel, in Belinda, by the word Belle. Positively, I will in future call her nothing else. Belle-bouche—pretty-mouth! Ah!"
And the unfortunate lover stretched languidly upon the lounge, studied the ceiling, and sighed piteously.
His friend burst into a roar of laughter. Jacques—for let us adopt the sobriquets all round—turned negligently and said:
"Pray what are you braying at, Sir Asinus?"
"At your sighs."
"Did I sigh?"
"Yes, portentously!"
"I think you are mistaken."
"No!"