Tom. And the Church Service.
O’Fi. No, sorr. When a gintleman asks me my ridgment, he has a right to know it, and I tell him at once. But when he asks me in what surrvice, sorr, why that’s a piece of impertinent curiosity, and I ask him “what the devil he means by it?”
Tom. Oh, I’m sure I don’t care; the regiment’s quite enough for me. But then I ain’t a capitalist.
O’Fi. Well, sorr, let us come to the p’int. For two months ye’ve been engaged to my lovely and accomplished daughter—— Don’t cry, my love. (To Matilda.)
Mat. No, pa. (Takes an egg.)
O’Fi. And ye’re as far from marrying her as iver. Now during the last two months my poor child’s been wastin’ the best years of her loife, and she can’t wait much longer.—Can ye, Matilda?
Mat. ’Deed, and I can’t then. I’m twenty-noine and a bit.
O’Fi. She’s twenty-noine—and a bit! Now it’s roight to tell ye, and you too, Matilda, that a gintleman of good birth, irreproachable morals, and a considerable command of ready money, has done me the honour to propose for me daughter’s hand. I say no more, sorr. As a man of honour there’s two courses open to ye, and I leave ye to decide which of ’em ye’ll take.
[Exit.