FANNY. Surely, mamma, I can get married without the consent of this cousin Brown that you are always talking about?
MRS. J. Of course you can, my dear; but Barbican Brown is a rich old bachelor, and your godfather into the bargain—I shall never forget him on the memorable occasion of your christening—the tender yet half-reproachful tone in which he said “don’t kick up such a row, you little brat,” as you lay squalling in his arms; and I must say, my dear, you did misbehave yourself in a variety of ways.
FANNY. Well, this godpapa of mine certainly must have taken a very violent interest in me indeed, considering that he has never seen me since.
MRS. J. Simply because your poor papa went out of business shortly after and settled at Brentford, and cousin Barbican went into business and settled in London; we really must go over to his little place at Holloway this evening, we shall be sure to catch him at home, and then we’ll see if between us we can’t coax him to come down with something handsome on your wedding day. (violent rain heard) Dear, dear, I declare it rains harder than ever; I really think, Fanny, we had better put off our shopping and our intended visit to cousin Barbican till to-morrow, and get into a Brentford omnibus and go home at once.
FANNY. Very well, mamma, but do let us take one stroll up and down the Arcade first. I suppose there’s no harm in it?
MRS. J. Harm! Do you suppose I should be here if everything wasn’t perfectly respectable? For goodness’ sake put that silly notion out of your head—and take care of your pockets.
MRS. JELLICOE and FANNY lounge out at R., looking at shops as they exeunt; violent rain again heard and noise of voices L., in dispute.
VOICE. (outside) Now then—where are you pushing?
O’WALKER. (without) I’m pushing my way into the Arcade—at least, I am trying to do it!
O’WALKER, with a green cotton umbrella over his head, forces his way through CROWD, L.