‘Marmaduke!’ she said.
And I think I was the only one present to realise the whole ingenuity of the manœuvre. For she had contrived here, in the open family circle, before a dozen people, yet with entire meetness and propriety, to address Mr. Weaverly by his Christian name.
As the meal progressed, and tongues became generally loosened, Mr. Parrett—whose silence, except as regarded his hearty application to his food, had so far remained unbroken—now essayed to contribute his share of the talk. His first effort was a startling one.
‘D-d-d’ he began, smiling over his shoulder at me, ‘d-do you l-l-l—’ He stopped, and gazed helplessly towards his wife.
‘Like, dear?’ suggested Mrs. Parrett, softly.
‘N-no! I was agoing t-t-to ask ye if ye l-l-l—’
‘Lend, then?’
‘Hur, hur! Emma, I don’t want to b-b-borrow nauthin’ o’ the gentleman! It was just to ask if he l-l-lived—there y’ are!—in W-w-w— Whatsay, Jane?’
‘’Tis apple-pie, George. Or maybe ye’d sooner try the—’
‘Pie, Jane! Pie, my d-dear! Pie, if you please, mum! An’ a double dose o’ sh-sh-shuggar. They allers says—don’t they, sir?—as if a man has a sweet-t-t-t—’