Hippanthigh: We—we hadn't told anyone yet.
Sladder: Well, I think clandestine's the word for it, Mr. Hippanthigh. I haven't had time in my life to bother about the exact[1] meanings of words or any nonsense of that sort, but I think clandestine's about the word for it.
Hippanthigh: It's a hard word, Mr. Sladder.
Sladder: May be. And who began using hard words? You came here and made me out a pickpocket, just because I use a few tasty little posters which sell my goods, and all the while you're trying on the sly to take a poor old man's daughter away from him. Well, Mr. Hippanthigh?
Hippanthigh: I—I never looked at it in that light before, Mr. Sladder. I never thought of it in that way. You have made me feel ashamed (he lowers his head), ashamed.
Sladder: Aha! Aha! I thought I would. Now you know what it's like when you make people ashamed of themselves. You don't like it when they do it to you. Aha! (Sladder is immensely pleased with himself.)
Hippanthigh: Mr. Sladder, I spoke to you as my conscience demanded, and you have shown me that I have done wrong in not speaking sooner about our engagement. I would have spoken to you, but I could not say that and the other thing in the same day. I meant to tell you soon;—well, I didn't, and I know it looks bad. I've done wrong and I admit it.
Sladder: Aha! (Still hugely pleased.)
Hippanthigh: But, Mr. Sladder, you would not on that account perhaps spoil your daughter's happiness, and take a terrible revenge on me. You would not withhold your consent to our——
Sladder: Wait a moment; we're coming to that. There's some bad animal that I've heard of that lives in France, and when folks attack it it defends itself. I've just been defending myself. I think I've shown you that you're no brand-new extra-gilt angel on the top of a spire.