Mrs. Somebody. Most certainly, as knowing that your father was a bootmaker in a large way, and your mother the daughter of a milliner, nothing else could be reasonably expected.
Mrs. Caller. Aware that you may know something of my immediate ancestry, I will leave no stone unturned to find an opening for some reference to my uncle the curate.
Miss Caller. Being glad to add on every conceivable occasion to the list of my partners at any promiscuous charity ball that I may patronise with my presence, I will ask after your eldest unmarried son?
Mrs. Somebody. I thank you, my dear child, but as I intend him to look rather higher than yourself for a matrimonial alliance, I will meet your politic inquiry with a pailful of polite cold water.
Mrs. Caller. Having now consumed the regulation cup of cold weak tea and section of luke-warm muffin, I will say good-bye, and take my departure. But before leaving I will make special reference to my brougham.
Miss Caller. And I will add my adieux, after giving a good long look at your hair, which seems to require attention at the roots.
Mrs. Somebody. I will warmly speed your parting, reflecting the while, as a sop to my wounded feelings, that you are both looking dreadfully old, and that your conveyance is merely a hired brougham. No doubt your stay would have been longer if the charge per hour had been what your vulgarian of a husband and father (who, thank goodness, has not called) would term "easier."
ASSOCIATION V. RUGBY.