"Well, Sally Hancock, if Tom marries, you must come to the wedding;" remarked Mrs. Pynsent, in a doleful voice.
"My dear, how can I come with this foot? A pretty trinket, isn't it, to present before a bride?—There's a neat foot to trip among the bridesmaids to the altar!—I'm only fit for Lea, Pen, but you can tell me all about it."
Mrs. Pynsent drew up her face and eyes into a comic expression of astonishment, as she contemplated her sister's foot, veiled from the public gaze in the recess of a large list shoe.
"Well, Sally Hancock, you gave a good price for it. There's a hundred thousand pounds' worth in that hovel of a shoe. Every farthing melted into your stomachs. It was sure to tell upon you, some day."
"We can't eat our cake and have it," observed the jolly Mrs. Hancock; "but it wasn't all spent in eating and drinking. Hancock and myself lost more than half at play. It didn't all go in eating and drinking, Pen. Poor Hancock was very violent when I was unlucky, but he thought nothing about his own losses."
"You would have him, Sally Hancock."
"Well, I was as resolute as yourself in the matter of Bob Pynsent, Pen; but all the Wycherlys were a rum set—must, and would have their own way. Give Tom credit for a slice of the family disorder, and pocket the affront."
"How my lady will hector, and compliment, and courtesy!" shuddered Mrs. Pynsent.
"Never mind my lady! When is it to take place?"
"Oh, I don't know; I was in such a fury, I asked no questions."