Landlord. Grandees was your own word, wife. They be not to call grandees; but I reckon you’d be sorry not to treat ’em civil, when I tell you their name is Talbot, mother and sister to our young Talbot, of Eton; he that paid me so handsome for the hunter this very morning.
Landlady. Mercy! is that all? What a combustion for nothing in life!
Finsb. For nothing in life, as you say, ma’m; that is, nothing in high life, I’m sure, ma’m; nay, I dare a’most venture to swear. Would you believe it, Mr. Talbot is one of the few young gentlemen of Eton that has not bespoke from me a fancy dress for this grand Montem?
Landlady. There, Mr. Newington; there’s your Talbot for you! and there’s your grandees! O trust me, I know your scrubs at first sight.
Landlord. Scrubs, I don’t, nor can’t, nor won’t call them that pay their debts honestly. Scrubs, I don’t, nor won’t, nor can’t, call them that behave as handsome as young Mr. Talbot did here to me this morning about the hunter. A scrub he is not, wife. Fancy-dress or no fancy-dress, Mr. Finsbury, this young gentleman is no scrub.
Finsb. Dear me! ’Twas not I said scrub. Did I say scrub?
Farm. No matter if you did.
Finsb. No matter, certainly; and yet it is a matter; for I’m confident I wouldn’t for the world leave it in anyone’s power to say that I said—that I called—any young gentleman of Eton a scrub! Why, you know, sir, it might breed a riot!
Farm. And a pretty figure you’d make in a riot!
Landlady. Pray let me hear nothing about riots in my house.