On leaving the play, at about half-past eleven, it rained slightly, and on passing the stage entrance we were nearly knocked down by an individual wearing a white hairy hat. I can still see him coming out of the door and bearing down upon us—I say us, because my mother was with me; I had not yet ventured to the theatre alone.
“Ladies,” cried the Bull-dog, “you have, I daresay, already guessed that the white hat shelters the clarionet. Ladies, stop for heaven’s sake!”
“Why? how? How dare you accost us in this manner; stand on one side, sir, stand on one side!” said my mother with a lofty air.
Before such a show of nobility the musician stammered, only taking off his hat. “It rains, ladies, and you have no umbrella, deign to accept mine.”
My mother who has always been careful, feared water quite as much as she did fire, and accordingly was fain to accept this umbrella, never dreaming that it would lead me to the altar of Hymen.
I purposely refrain from dwelling on details as uninteresting to the reader as they are irritating to myself. The bold musician taking advantage of the introduction afforded by an unlucky shower of rain had paid us several visits, when at last my mother said to me,
“Eliza, tell me frankly, what do you think of him?”
“Who, mamma?” I said inquiringly; “the musician?”
“Yes, little rogue, the clarionet, the young Bull-dog who wants your hand. You know quite well I am speaking of him.”
“But, mamma, I find him so horribly ugly.”