'It is, it is my own, my only daughter, my Cherubina!' cried she, with a tremendous voice. 'Come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of the departed Theodore!'
'Why, ma'am,' said I, 'I would with great pleasure, but I am afraid—Oh, madam, indeed, indeed, I am quite sure you cannot be my mother!'
'Why not, thou unnatural girl?' cried she.
'Because, madam,' answered I, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her portrait proves.'
'And so I was once,' said she. 'This deplorable plumpness is owing to want of exercise. But I thank the Gods I am as pale as ever.'
'Heavens! no,' cried I. 'Your face, pardon me, is a rich scarlet.'
'And is this our tender meeting?' cried she. 'To disown me, to throw my fat in my teeth, to violate the lilies of my skin with a dash of scarlet? Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle! Tell me, girl, will you embrace me, or will you not?'
'Indeed, madam,' answered I, 'I will presently.'
'Presently!'