Min. (earnestly). Oh, Parker, am I really beautiful? Really, really beautiful, you know?
Par. Oh, miss, there’s no question about it. Oh, I do so hope you and Mr. Cheviot Hill will be happy.
Min. Oh, I’m sure we shall, Parker. He has often told me that I am the tree upon which the fruit of his heart is growing; and one couldn’t wish to be more than that. And he tells me that his greatest happiness is to see me happy. So it will be my duty—my duty, Parker—to devote my life, my whole life, to making myself as happy as I possibly can.
Enter Symperson, dressed for wedding.
Sym. So, my little lamb is ready for the sacrifice. You can go, Parker. And I am to lose my pet at last; my little dickey-bird is to be married to-day! Well, well, it’s for her good. I must try and bear it—I must try and bear it.
Min. And as my dear old papa comes into £1000 a year by it, I hope he won’t allow it to distress him too much. He must try and bear up. He mustn’t fret.
Sym. My child, I will not deny that £1000 a year is a consolation. It’s quite a fortune. I hardly know what I shall do with it.
Min. I think, dear papa, you will spend a good deal of it on brandy, and a good deal more on billiards, and a good deal more on betting.
Sym. It may be so: I don’t say it won’t. We shall see, Minnie, we shall see. These simple pleasures would certainly tend to soothe your poor old father’s declining years. And my darling has not done badly either, has she?
Min. No, dear papa; only fancy! Cheviot has £2000 a year from shares in the Royal Indestructible Bank.