And sure enough he did: pig in the straw; sow in the stye; bull in the meadow; sheep in the fold; everything was perfect.
Never before had Mr. Bumpkin been so overpowered. He never before knew what music was. Truly Piganiny was a deserving man, and a clever one too. Mr. Bumpkin’s enthusiasm had carried him thus far, when to his great satisfaction the Lady Flora looked round. It was very nice of her, because it was as if she wished to know if Mr. Bumpkin and his friend felt the same rapturous delight as she and her sister. What a nice face Lady Flora’s was! It wasn’t unlike the Squire’s eldest daughter’s. Between that, perhaps, and the Vicar’s youngest daughter’s.
Then the Countess slightly turned round, her face wearing a smile of great complaisance, and Mr. Bumpkin could have seen at once that she was a person of great distinction even if he had not been informed of her rank. Well, taken for all in all, it was a night he would never forget, and his only feeling of regret was that Mrs. Bumpkin was not present to share his pleasure—the roar of that bull would have just pleased her; it was so like Sampson.
And now the scene shifters were preparing for another performance, and were adjusting ropes and fixing poles, and what not, when, as Mr. Bumpkin was lost in profound meditation, up rose from her seat the beautiful Lady Flora, and turning round with a bewitching face, and assuming an air of inexpressible simplicity, she exclaimed to Mr. Bumpkin in the sweetest of voices: “O you duck!”
Mr. Bumpkin started as if a cannon had exploded in his face instead of a beautiful young lady. He blushed to the deepest crimson, and then the lady Flora poured into him a volley of her sweetiest prettiest laughter. Attacked thus so suddenly and so effectively, what could he do? He felt there must be some mistake, and that he ought to apologize. But the Lady Flora gave him no time; leaning forward, she held out her hand—
“Beg pardon, m’lady—thic—I—I.”
Then the Countess rose and smiled upon Mr. Bumpkin, and said she hoped he wouldn’t mind; her sister was of such a playful disposition.
The playful one here just touched Mr. Bumpkin under the chin with her forefinger, and again said he was a “perfect duck!”
“What be the manin’ o’ this?” said he. “I be off; come on, sir. This be quite enough for I.”
“Don’t go like that,” said Lady Flora. “Oh, dear, dear, what a cruel man!”