Verb. I can guess who has made that offer, and why. I consent with all my heart, dear Papa.
Sir P. Can I trust my ears! You consent? Noble girl!
[He embraces her.
Verb. I was quite sure dear Bleshugh meant to speak, and I do love him very much.
Sir P. (starting). It is not Lord Bleshugh, my child, but Mr. Samuel Spiker, the gentleman (for he is at heart a gentleman) whom I introduced to you just now.
Verb. I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him—you must really excuse me!
Sir P. Ah, but you will, my darling, you will—I know your unselfish nature—you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible disgrace ... yes, disgrace, listen! Twenty-seven years ago—(he tells her all). Verbena, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond old father's fame? Mr. Spiker is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways—not quite of our monde—but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is, in itself, a recommendation. Ah, I see—my prayers are vain ... be happy, then. As for me, let the police come—I am ready!
[Weeps.
Verb. Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. Spiker, since it is your wish.
[Sir Posh. dries his eyes.