BROWN. Ah!
O’WALKER. (aside) It is the fondest of Brown’s. (aloud in the same low earnest tone) Brown, you are deceived.
BROWN. What do you mean?
O’WALKER. I mean that Amelia Jones——
BROWN. Hush!
O’WALKER. I repeat, that Amelia Jones.
BROWN. Hush! (looking about him and then to O’WALKER) don’t speak so loud—I’m afraid you’ll call me a sad dog when I unfold my tale—I shan’t be offended if you do—for I know I’m a shocking good-for-nothing rascal, but I can’t help it—that’s the melancholy part of it—I can’t help it. Listen! As I was sauntering about the West End one evening last week, I suddenly found that I had lost my way, and seeing a gentleman in a Highland dress standing outside the door of a tobacconist’s shop, in the act of taking a pinch of snuff, I accosted him and civilly asked him where I was; he didn’t think proper to reply, which I inferred from being a Highlander he didn’t understand English—consequently, I entered the shop, and there I beheld a sweet creature—I bought a cigar, and though I had never smoked before in all my life, I lighted it—I positively lighted it, and then I smoked and chatted, and chatted and smoked, till, as it was getting rather late, and I was getting very poorly, I took my leave of the fair creature and went home. I’m ashamed to say I was there again, the next day, and the next day, and the day after that; and as every pound of cigars I bought of her seemed to ingratiate me more and more in her good opinion, in less than a week I found I had laid in a sufficient stock to open a tobacconist’s shop of my own—in fact I became so fascinated—so charmed—so—so——
O’WALKER. Spooney!
BROWN. Exactly—so spooney—that I was on the point of asking her to become Mrs. Brown, when I suddenly recollected that I was engaged to another.
O’WALKER. Engaged to another?