Nescio. “Well, if you will not defend him, perhaps Tristo will. What say you?”
Tristo. “Oh! There are parts and passages of glorious beauty! The episodes of the Monk, Maria, and the dead Ass—I confess it—draw tears at the bare remembrance.”
Nescio. “Yes—but those are in the Sentimental Journey.”
Tristo. “Right. It is some years since I read it. I have of late been absorbed in poetry, wild fiction, and idle thinkings. Friend Pulito, however, if you can waken him from his trance, will, doubtless, be glad to enter the list with you—lance in rest.”
Nescio. “He must speak for himself. Come, Pulito, what think you of the proposal?”
Pulito. (Musing.) “Why, I have hardly thought, yet, of proposing, though she’s a deucedly pretty girl—Phoebus! what a face, and what a dewy lip!”
Apple. (Chuckling.) “You and she then might play a fine dew-wet together.”
Pulito. (Still gazing in his coffee-cup.) “True—she does sing well—and then, such glossy hair, and that eye of jet.”
Apple. “From that eye, then, we might expect to see a fine jet d’eau.” [At this last discharge, Pulito was thoroughly awakened, while the others wished they had been asleep.]
Nescio. “Now you’re awake, Pulito, you will, perhaps, answer my challenge.”