The two had sat for some moments, glaring at each other, in profound silence, when Miss Garr suddenly exclaimed, “You long-waisted vagabond, shut up!”
This might have been effectual in a contest with a person of her own sex; since it might have shocked into silence or proved an Ultima Thule of feminine virulence. When, however, Mr. Beanson, having taken some time to consider, remembered that he was not talking at all when he was requested to “shut up,” the thing struck him as laughable. Accordingly Mr. Beanson laughed—laughed loud and long, till Mr. Beanson had laughed out all the fun there was in the occurrence, and some of his own anger to boot.
“Now, madam,” said he facetiously, “I am prepared to part with you.”
Miss Garr was more angry than ever.
“I say, madam, I am prepared to part with you. I will not detain you further.”
“You ugly, hateful, impudent wretch!” remarked Sophia, finding speech at last. “You may insult me here as much as you please, since I am without a protector; but you shall not drive me away till you have answered my question. I would as soon marry a keg of nails as you, sir; so you may set your mind at rest! It is somebody else that my outraged feelings are interested in—somebody else of more consequence than you, though I verily believe he is as big a villain——”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Beanson, as any other drowning man might have done before he was swallowed up by any other flood.
“Do you suppose, sir, I would walk all the way here from Folsome Street, and up these interminable stairs, and then go away, without knowing what constitutes a breach of promise? I would have you know, sir, that my case is urgent.”
“Then you did not intend to prosecute me at all?” asked Mr. Beanson, opening his eyes very wide.
“Have I not told you once? Would I prosecute a keg of nails, you ninny?”