“Lindsay, you're an offensive old dog, sir.”
“I might retort the compliment by changing the sex, my dear,” he replied, laughing! and nodding at her, with a face, from the nose down, rather benevolent than otherwise, but still the knit was between the brows.
“Lindsay, you're an unmanly villain, and a coward to boot, or you wouldn't use such language to a woman.”
“Not to a woman; but I'm sometimes forced to do so to a termagant.”
“What's the cause of all this?” inquired Woodward; “upon my honor, the language I hear is very surprising, as coming from a justice of quorum and his lady. Fie! fie! I am ashamed of you both. In what did it originate?”
“Why, the fact is, Harry, she has told us that Alice Goodwin, in the most decided manner, has rejected your addresses, and confided to you an avowal of her attachment to Charles here. Now, when I heard this, I felt highly delighted at it, and said we should have them married, and so we shall. Then your mother, in flaming indignation at this, enacted Vesuvius in a blaze, and there she stands ready for another eruption.”
“I wish you were in the bottom of Vesuvius, Lindsay; but you shall not have your way, notwithstanding.”
“So I am, my dear, every day in my life. I have a little volcano of my own here, under the very roof with me; and I tell that volcano that I will have my own way in this matter, and that this marriage must take place if Alice is willing; and I'm sure she is, the dear girl.”
“Sir,” said Woodward, addressing his step-father calmly, “I feel a good deal surprised that a thinking man, of a naturalise late temper as you are,—”
“Yes, Harry, I am so.”