, my dear Con., shall be yours
incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear?
You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his
education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity.

Enter DIGGORY.

DIGGORY. Where's the 'squire? I have got a letter for your worship.

TONY. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first.

DIGGORY. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands.

TONY. Who does it come from?

DIGGORY. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself.

TONY. I could wish to know though (turning the letter, and gazing on
it).

MISS NEVILLE. (Aside.) Undone! undone! A letter to him from
Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for
ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To MRS.
HARDCASTLE.) But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart
answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed.--You must know,
madam.--This way a little, for he must not hear us. [They confer.]

TONY. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I
saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here are
such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head
from the tail.--"To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It's very odd, I can
read the outside of my letters, where my own name is, well enough; but
when I come to open it, it's all----buzz. That's hard, very hard; for
the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was
too hard for the philosopher.

MISS NEVILLE. Yes, madam; but you must hear the rest, madam. A
little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled
him again.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks.

TONY. (Still gazing.) A damned up and down hand, as if it was
disguised in liquor.--(Reading.) Dear Sir,--ay, that's that. Then
there's an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard, or
an R, confound me, I cannot tell.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. What's that, my dear? Can I give you any
assistance?

MISS NEVILLE. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand
better than I. (Twitching the letter from him.) Do you know who it is
from?

TONY. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder.

MISS NEVILLE. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to read.) Dear 'Squire,
hoping that you're in health, as I am at this present