Fred. Cut it, ma’am! I can’t cut it, I say; it’s as hard as a deal board. You might as well tell me to cut the table, ma’am. Mutton, indeed! not a bit of fat. Roast mutton, indeed! not a drop of gravy. Mutton, truly! quite a cinder. I’ll have none of it. Here, take it away; take it downstairs to the cook. It’s a very hard case, Mrs. Carbuncle, that I can never have a bit of anything that I can eat at my own table, Mrs. Carbuncle, since I was married, ma’am, I that am the easiest man in the whole world to please about my dinner. It’s really very extraordinary, Mrs. Carbuncle! What have you at that corner there, under the cover?
Mar. Patties, sir; oyster patties.
Fred. Patties, ma’am! kickshaws! I hate kickshaws. Not worth putting under a cover, ma’am. And why not have glass covers, that one may see one’s dinner before one, before it grows cold with asking questions, Mrs. Carbuncle, and lifting up covers? But nobody has any sense: and I see no water plates anywhere, lately.
Mar. Do, pray, doctor, let me help you to a bit of chicken before it gets cold, my dear.
Fred. (aside). “My dear,” again, Marianne!
Mar. Yes, brother, because she is frightened, you know, and Mrs. Carbuncle always says “my dear” to him when she’s frightened, and looks so pale from side to side; and sometimes she cries before dinner’s done, and then all the company are quite silent, and don’t know what to do.
“Oh, such a little creature; to have so much sense, too!” exclaimed Mrs. Theresa, with rapture. “Mr. Frederick, you’ll make me die with laughing! Pray go on, Dr. Carbuncle.”
Fred. Well, ma’am, then if I must eat something, send me a bit of fowl; a leg and wing, the liver wing, and a bit of the breast, oyster sauce, and a slice of that ham, if you please, ma’am.
(Dr. Carbuncle eats voraciously, with his head down to his plate, and, dropping the sauce, he buttons up his coat tight across the breast.)
Fred. Here; a plate, knife and fork, bit o’ bread, a glass of Dorchester ale!