"A foolish fancy, your ladyship," the unfortunate Sir Tristram put in.
"Now I am resolved to go! Get me that bodice I wore at the fancy dress ball, Nancy. We shall all go—I shall be Martha,—Nancy, and old Rob."
"And—and who may be 'old Rob,' your ladyship?" Sir Tristram asked, feeling much pained at this frivolity.
"Why, you, to be sure. Come! No mumps! No dumps! We are off!"
"Oh, this is too much."
"What, Sir Tristram, is that the extent of your love for me?"
"No, no—I shall do as you wish—but," the poor old chap sighed heavily.
"To be sure you will—so now, Nancy, teach old Rob how the yokels dance, and we'll be off."
"This is too much. I can't dance in that manner."
"Dance—or leave me! Dance—or stay at home, sir!" Harriet cried sternly.