O’Bla. That is all I ax.
Old McB. But now what settlement, counshillor, will you make on my girl?
O’Bla. A. hundred a year—I wish to be liberal—Mr. Carver will see to that—he knows all my affairs, as I suppose he was telling you.
Old McB. He was—I’m satisfied, and I’m at a word myself always. You heard me name my girl’s portion, sir?
O’Bla. I can’t say—I didn’t mind—‘twas no object to me in life.
Old McB. (in a very low, mysterious tone, and slow brogue) Then five hundred guineas is some object to most men.
O’Bla. Certainly, sir; but not such an object as your daughter to me: since we are got upon business, however, best settle all that out of the way, as you say at once. Of the five hundred, I have two in my hands already, which you can make over to me with a stroke of a pen. (Rising quickly, and getting pen, ink, and books.)
Old McB. (speaking very slowly) Stay a hit—no hurry—in life. In business—‘tis always most haste, worse speed.
O’Bla. Take your own time, my good Matthew—I’ll be as slow as you plase—only love’s quick.
Old McB. Slow and sure—love and all—fast bind, fast find—three and two, what does that make?