Uncle Gab. Why—why—what's come to you, Joanna? My Lord, I hope you'll excuse her—she's a little——
Mrs. Gil. Fiddlesticks! You've been made a fool of, Gabriel! Can't you see for yourself that he's neither the manners nor yet the appearance of a real nobleman—or anything but what he is?
Uncle Gab. (dropping Lord S.'s arm). Eh? If you're not a Lord, Sir, what else are you?
Lord Strath. (wavering between wrath and amusement). Afraid I can't enlighten you—I'm extremely curious to know myself.
Mrs. Tid. (distractedly). Oh, Aunt, it wasn't my fault, really! Montague would have him! And—and we sent round to say he wouldn't be required—we did indeed! Please, please don't tell anybody!
Mrs. Gil. (rigidly). It is my duty to let everyone here know how disgracefully we have been insulted to-night, Maria, and might have gone away in ignorance, but for that innocent child—who has done nothing, that I can see, to deserve being shaken like that! I'm not going to sit by in silence and see a man passed off as a Lord who is nothing more nor less than one of the assistants out of Blankley's shop, hired to come and fill a vacant seat! Yes, Gabriel, if you doubt my word, look at Maria—and now ask that young man to dine!
[Profound sensation among the company.
Uncle Gab. I—ah—withdraw the invitation, of course—it is cancelled, Sir, cancelled!
Feminine Murmur. I had a feeling, the moment he came in, as if—so thankful now I didn't commit myself by so much as—ah, my dear, it all comes from a desire to make a show!—&c., &c.
Uncle Gab. It's the bare-faced impudence of coming here on false pretences, that I can't get over. Come, Mr. Shopwalker, Counterjumper, or whatever you really are, what have you got to say for yourself?