Enter DIGGORY.
DIGGORY. Where’s the ’squire? I have got a letter for your worship.
TONY. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first.
DIGGORY. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands.
TONY. Who does it come from?
DIGGORY. Your worship mun ask that o’ the letter itself.
TONY. I could wish to know though (turning the letter, and gazing on it).
MISS NEVILLE. (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 damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here are such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head from the tail.—“To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire.” 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’s all——buzz. That’s hard, very hard; for the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher.