Squire.—"That's well put. Considering he was only a foreign doctor, and, for aught we know, went about in a caravan, he is a gentlemanlike fellow, that Rickeybockey. I speak of people as I find them. But what is your notion about Frank? I see you don't think he is in love with Violante, after all. Out with it, man; speak plain."
Parson.—"Since you so urge me, I own I do not think him in love with her; neither does my Carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such matters."
Squire.—"Your Carry, indeed!—as if she were half as shrewd as my Harry. Carry—nonsense!"
Parson (reddening).—"I don't want to make invidious remarks; but, Mr. Hazeldean, when you sneer at my Carry, I should not be a man if I did not say that—"
Squire (interrupting).—"She was a good little woman enough; but to compare her to my Harry!"
Parson.—"I don't compare her to your Harry; I don't compare her to any woman in England, sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr. Hazeldean!"
Squire.—"I!"
Parson.—"And people are staring at you, Mr. Hazeldean. For decency's sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at the Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as ill as he represents himself in his letter. Ah! is it possible? No, it can not be. Look—look!"
Squire.—"Where—what—where? Don't pinch so hard. Bless me, do you see a ghost?"
Parson.—"There—the gentleman in black!"