FullReads

MRS. P.–Beautiful! beautiful? How blue becomes you! Who would think you were the mother of Mr. Milliken and seven other darling children? You can afford what Lady Kicklebury cannot.

MRS. B.–And what is that, Prior? A poor clergyman’s wife, with a large family, cannot afford much.

MRS. P.–He! he! You can afford to be seen as you are, which Lady K. cannot. Did you not remark how afraid she seemed lest I should enter her dressing-room? Only Pinhorn, her maid, goes there, to arrange the roses, and the lilies, and the figure–he! he! Oh, what a sweet, sweet cap-ribbon! When you have worn it, and are tired of it, you will give it me, won’t you? It will be good enough for poor old Martha Prior!

MRS. B.–Do you really like it? Call at Greenwood Place, Mrs. Prior, the next time you pay Richmond a visit, and bring your little girl with you, and we will see.

MRS. P.–Oh, thank you! thank you! Nay, don’t be offended! I must! I must! [Kisses MRS. BONNINGTON.]

MRS. B.–There, there! We must not stay chattering! The bell has rung. I must go and put the cap on, Mrs. Prior.

MRS. P.–And I may come too? YOU are not afraid of my seeing your hair, dear Mrs. Bonnington! Mr. Bonnington too young for YOU! Why, you don’t look twenty!

MRS. B.–Oh, Mrs. Prior!

MRS. P.–Well, five-and-twenty, upon my word–not more than five-and-twenty–and that is the very prime of life. [Exeunt Mrs. B. and Mrs. P., hand in hand. As Captain TOUCHIT enters, dressed for dinner, he bows and passes on.]

TOUCHIT.–So, we are to wear our white cravats, and our varnished boots, and dine in ceremony. What is the use of a man being a widower, if he can’t dine in his shooting-jacket? Poor Mill! He has the slavery now without the wife. [He speaks sarcastically to the picture.] Well, well! Mrs. Milliken! YOU, at any rate, are gone; and with the utmost respect for you, I like your picture even better than the original. Miss Prior!

Enter Miss PRIOR.

MISS PRIOR.–I beg pardon. I thought you were gone to dinner. I heard the second bell some time since. [She is drawing back.]

TOUCHIT.–Stop! I say, Julia! [She returns, he looks at her, takes her hand.] Why do you dress yourself in this odd poky way? You used to be a very smartly dressed girl. Why do you hide your hair, and wear such a dowdy, high gown, Julia?

JULIA.–You mustn’t call me Julia, Captain Touchit.

TOUCHIT.–Why? when I lived in your mother’s lodging, I called you Julia. When you brought up the tea, you didn’t mind being called Julia. When we used to go to the play with the tickets the Editor gave us, who lived on the second floor–

JULIA.–The wretch!–don’t speak of him!

TOUCHIT.–Ah! I am afraid he was a sad deceiver, that Editor. He was a very clever fellow. What droll songs he used to sing! What a heap of play-tickets, diorama-tickets, concert-tickets, he used to give you! Did he touch your heart, Julia?

JULIA.–Fiddlededee! No man ever touched my heart, Captain Touchit.

TOUCHIT.–What! not even Tom Flight, who had the second floor after the Editor left it–and who cried so bitterly at the idea of going out to India without you? You had a tendre for him–a little passion–you know you had. Why, even the ladies here know it. Mrs. Bonnington told me that you were waiting for a sweetheart in India to whom you were engaged; and Lady Kicklebury thinks you are dying in love for the absent swain.

JULIA.–I hope–I hope–you did not contradict them, Captain Touchit.

TOUCHIT.–Why not, my dear?

JULIA.–May I be frank with you? You were a kind, very kind friend to us–to me, in my youth.

TOUCHIT.–I paid my lodgings regularly, and my bills without asking questions. I never weighed the tea in the caddy, or counted the lumps of sugar, or heeded the rapid consumption of my liqueur–

JULIA.–Hush, hush! I know they were taken. I know you were very good to us. You helped my poor papa out of many a difficulty.