Wil. To-night, miss. I had it from his own lips, and he’s coming to-day to say good-bye.
Jen. (aside). To-night!
Wil. And a good job too, say I, though he’s a nice young gentleman too.
Jen. I don’t see that it’s a good job.
Wil. I don’t want no young gentleman hanging about here, miss. I know what they comes arter;—they comes arter the flowers.
Jen. The flowers? What nonsense!
Wil. No, it ain’t nonsense. The world’s a haphazard garden where common vegetables like me, and hardy annuals like my boys, and sour crabs like my old ’ooman, and pretty delicate flowers like you and your sisters grow side by side. It’s the flowers they come arter.
Jen. Really, Wilcox, if papa don’t object I don’t see what you have to do with it.
Wil. No, your pa don’t object; but I can’t make your pa out, miss. Walk off with one of his tuppenny toolips and he’s your enemy for life. Walk off with one of his darters and he settles three hundred a year on you. Tell ’ee what, miss; if I’d a family of grown gals like you, I’d stick a conservatory label on each of them—“Please not to touch the specimens!”—and I’d take jolly good care they didn’t.