Tony. I could wish to know, though (turning the letter and gazing on it).
Miss Nev. (Aside.) Undone, undone! A letter to him from Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle.) But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed—You must know, madam—this way a little; for he must not hear us.
They confer.
Tony. (Still gazing.) A damn'd cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your printhand very well. But here there are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the tail. To Anthony Lumpkin, Esq. It's very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, where my own name is, well enough. But when I come to open it, it is all—buzz. That's hard, very hard; for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence.
Mrs. Hard. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher.
Miss Nev. Yes, madam; but you must hear the rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled him again.
Mrs. Hard. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks.
Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned up and down hand, as if it was disguised in liquor. (Reading.) Dear Sir, Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, and S; but whether the next be an izzard or an R, confound me, I cannot tell.
Mrs. Hard. What's that, my dear. Can I give you any assistance?
Miss Nev. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand better than I. (Twitching the letter from her.) Do you know who it is from?