is well, and whether you made the pudden and the butter
sauce. The butter sauce was delicious!" (He loved it so well that he had
kept a large quantity in the bosom of a very dingy shirt.) "You made it
as though you loved me. You helped me as though you loved me, though you
don't."

"Faith, sir, you are taking some of the present away with you in your
waistcoat," says Hagan, with much spirit.

"Sir, you are rude!" bawls the Doctor. "You are unacquainted with the
first principles of politeness, which is courtesy before ladies. Having
received an university education, I am surprised that you have not
learned the rudiments of politeness. I respect Mrs. Warrington. I should
never think of making personal remarks about her guests before her!"

"Then, sir," says Hagan, fiercely, "why did you speak of my theatre?"

"Sir, you are saucy!" roars the Doctor.

"De te fabula," says the actor. "I think it is your waistcoat that is
saucy. Madam, shall I make some punch in the way we make it in Ireland?"

The Doctor, puffing, and purple in the face, was wiping the dingy shirt
with a still more dubious pocket-handkerchief, which he then applied to
his forehead. After this exercise, he blew a hyperborean whistle, as
if to blow his wrath away. "It is de me, sir--though, as a young man,
perhaps you need not have told me so."

"I drop my point, sir! If you have been wrong, I am sure I am bound to
ask your pardon for setting you so!" says Mr. Hagan, with a fine bow.

"Doesn't he look like a god?" says Maria, clutching my wife's hand: and
indeed Mr. Hagan did look like a handsome young gentleman. His colour
had risen; he had put his hand to his breast with a noble air: Chamont
or Castalio could not present himself better.

"Let me make you some lemonade, sir; my papa has sent us a box of fresh
limes. May we send you some to the Temple?"

"Madam, if they stay in your house, they will lose their quality and
turn sweet," says the Doctor. "Mr. Hagan, you are a young sauce-box,
that's what you are! Ho! ho! It is I have been wrong."

"Oh, my lord, my Polidore!" bleats Lady Maria, when she was alone in my
wife's drawing-room:

"'Oh, I could hear thee talk for ever thus,
Eternally admiring,--fix and gaze
On those dear eyes, for every glance they send
Darts through my soul, and fills my heart with rapture!'

"Thou knowest not, my Theo, what a pearl and paragon of a man my
Castalio is; my Chamont, my--oh, dear me, c