‘N-n-nonsense!—afore I could s-s-s—’
‘Seize hold o’ the—?’
‘Emma, do bide quiet!—afore I could s-s-say Jack Robinson, the ould mare, she b-b-backed upon her harnches, and she—’
And from Miss Matilda:
‘Oh! I should so love to, Mr. Weaverly! Is there a very beautiful view? And could we walk there and back in an afternoon, do you think?’
And from Farmer Coles, folding up his napkin: ‘Well, if no one wunt have no more—’
The rest was lost in the rustle of Mrs. Coles’s skirts, as she uprose.
‘And now, William dear, I think we ladies will leave you to your smoke. And when you are quite ready, we will have a rubber and a little music.’
In the drawing-room presently, the farmer and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Parrett, sat down to a solemn, silent game of whist. A ‘Happy Family’ party made a vortex of merriment in a far corner. At the piano stood Mr. Weaverly, translating into soft melodious trifles such songs as ‘The Wolf’ and ‘Hearts of Oak.’ As for me, I was happy in the great chair with the family portrait album, full of early Victorian photographs, which I sincerely believe to be amongst the most fascinating and informing productions of all that fertile reign. But after an hour of this inspiring occupation, I was suddenly roused to the contemplation of a still greater wonder. One of the card-players had spoken, and that sharply.
‘Emma! Emma, my dear!’