"You—you are taking too much wine, Arthur," Mr. Smirke said, softly—"you are exciting yourself."
"No," said Pen, "women give headaches, but this don't. Fill your glass, old fellow, and let's drink—I say, Smirke, my boy—let's drink to her—your her, I mean, not mine, for whom I swear I'll care no more—no, not a penny—no, not a fig—no, not a glass of wine. Tell us about the lady, Smirke; I've often seen you sighing about her."
"Oh!" said Smirke—and his beautiful cambric shirt front and glistening studs heaved with the emotion which agitated his gentle and suffering bosom.
"Oh—what a sigh!" Pen cried, growing very hilarious; "fill, my boy, and drink the toast, you can't refuse a toast, no gentleman refuses a toast. Here's her health, and good luck to you, and may she soon be Mrs. Smirke."
"Do you say so?" Smirke said, all of a tremble. "Do you really say so, Arthur?"
"Say so; of course, I say so. Down with it. Here's Mrs. Smirke's good health: hip, hip, hurray!"
Smirke convulsively gulped down his glass of wine, and Pen waved his over his head, cheering so as to make his mother and Laura wonder on the lawn, and his uncle, who was dozing over the paper in the drawing-room, start, and say to himself, "that boy's drinking too much."
Smirke put down the glass.
"I accept the omen," gasped out the blushing curate. "Oh, my dear Arthur, you—you know her—"
"What—Myra Portman? I wish you joy: she's got a dev'lish large waist; but I wish you joy, old fellow."