Mr. W. My dear, so far as I am concerned, a very definite understanding has existed for a very long time.
Mrs. W. Peace, vain scoffer! and hear me. Our daughter, Mr. Watmuff, is of an age to wed.
Mr. W. My love, I am given to understand that she also is of that opinion.
Mrs. W. And of this crisis in the life of our only child you make an opportunity to fly in my face.
Mr. W. Do I, my dear? I was not aware of it.
Mrs. W. Do you not directly encourage the advances of a suitor who is to me in every way distasteful?
Mr. W. But, my love, on what grounds? On what grounds?
Mrs. W. Grounds, Mr. Watmuff—grounds! You speak of your daughter as though she were so much coffee. Is it not enough that I object to the addresses of this young upstart?
Mr. W. My dear, it is quite enough. I may say that it is more than enough. But what was I to do? I always liked Walter. You know that I dote on Emily. They come to me, tell me that they love each other, and ask for my blessing. I happen to have a blessing by me, and I give it them.
Mrs. W. And without a thought of me—me, the partner of your joys and sorrows—me, the ruling spirit of your existence. You have no right to dispose of a blessing of your own, Mr. Watmuff—you have not got one. Such a blessing is a curse.