"I left mamma very unwell."
"Too-too! she can't be ill. Hasn't she married her daughters to two mad scamps, that her heart was set upon? What is she ill about? Can't she get you off, just yet, that she is so dull? She had better throw you at Selgrave's head. Well, and how is my pretty Mrs. Boscawen?"
Christobelle gave Mrs. Pynsent a full account of Isabel's health, and her happiness at Brierly.
"Very proper; I am glad to hear it. That was your father's match, missy. He valued a good man. Lord, Tom, what are you doing there, with Anna Maria?"
Tom Pynsent was removing a basket of apricots from his lady's vicinity.
"I won't let my wife eat these unripe things, to make herself ill, and bring on all sorts of queer feelings. Upon my soul, you have eaten six half-ripe apricots; you have eaten sour things enough to kill an old fox, much less a little delicate creature like yourself."
"Just one apricot more, Tom," said Anna Maria, coaxingly.
"By Jove, I'll throw them out to the dogs, Anna! You shall not eat such trash."
"Just one more, Tom," continued his lady, advancing her hand towards the basket, and looking half-beseechingly, half-saucily, at him.