Box. [Looking significantly at Mrs. Bouncer.] So it seems! Far be it from me, Bouncer, to hurry your movements, but I think it right to acquaint you with my immediate intention of divesting myself of my garments, and going to bed.
Mrs. B. Oh, Mr. Box!
[Going.
Box. Stop! Can you inform me who the individual is that I invariably encounter going down stairs when I’m coming up, and coming up stairs when I’m going down?
Mrs. B. [Confused.] Oh—yes—the gentleman in the attic, sir.
Box. Oh! There’s nothing particularly remarkable about him, except his hats. I meet him in all sorts of hats—white hats and black hats—hats with broad brims, and hats with narrow brims—hats with naps, and hats without naps—in short, I have come to the conclusion, that he must be individually and professionally associated with the hatting interest.
Mrs. B. Yes, sir. And, by the bye, Mr. Box, he begged me to request of you, as a particular favor, that you would not smoke quite so much.
Box. Did he? Then you may tell the gentle hatter, with my compliments, that if he objects to the effluvia of tobacco, he had better domesticate himself in some adjoining parish.
Mrs. B. Oh, Mr. Box! You surely wouldn’t deprive me of a lodger?
[Pathetically.