Niece. But why must it be huddled up so?
Aunt. Oh, my dear, a private wedding is much better; your mother had such a bustle at hers, with feasting and fooling. Besides, they did not go to bed till two in the morning.
Niece. Since you understand things so well, I wonder you never married yourself.
Aunt. My dear, I was very cruel thirty years ago, and nobody has asked me since.
Niece. Alas-a-day!
Aunt. Yet, I assure you, there was a great many matches proposed to me: There was Sir Gilbert Jolly, but he, forsooth, could not please; he drank ale and smoked tobacco, and was no fine gentleman, forsooth—But then, again, there was young Mr. Peregrine Shapely, who had travelled, and spoke French, and smiled at all I said; he was a fine gentleman—but then he was consumptive. And yet again, to see how one may be mistaken; Sir Jolly died in half-a-year, and my Lady Shapely has by that thin slip eight children, that should have been mine—but here's the bridegroom.—So, cousin Humphry!
Enter Humphry.
Hump. Your servant, ladies. So, my dear——
Niece. So, my savage—