Here, Jack, I laid out for a compliment, and missed it.

’Tis easy to guess, Sir; for there cannot be two such gentlemen as you.

Well said, dame Smith—­but mean you good or bad?—­Handsome was the least I thought she would have said.

I leave you to guess, Sir.

Condemned, thought I, by myself, on this appeal.

Why, father Smith, thy wife is a wit, man!—­Didst thou ever find that out before?—­But where is widow Lovick, dame Smith?  My cousin John Belford says she is a very good woman.  Is she within? or is she gone with Miss Harlowe too?

She will be within by-and-by, Sir.  She is not with the lady.

Well, but my good dear Mrs. Smith, where is the lady gone? and when will she return?

I can’t tell, Sir.

Don’t tell fibs, dame Smith; don’t tell fibs, chucking her under the chin:  which made John’s upper-lip, with chin shortened, rise to his nose.  —­I am sure you know!—­But here’s another pair of stairs:  let us see:  Who lives up there?—­but hold, here’s another room locked up, tapping at the door—­Who’s at home? cried I.

That’s Mrs. Lovick’s apartment.  She is gone out, and has the key with her.

Widow Lovick! rapping again, I believe you are at home:  pray open the door.

John and Joseph muttered and whispered together.

No whispering, honest friends:  ’tis not manners to whisper.  Joseph, what said John to thee?

John!  Sir, disdainfully repeated the good woman.

I beg pardon, Mrs. Smith:  but you see the force of example.  Had you showed your honest man more respect, I should.  Let me give you a piece of advice—­women who treat their husbands irreverently, teach strangers to use them with contempt.  There, honest master John; why dost not pull off thy hat to me?—­Oh! so thou wouldst, if thou hadst it on:  but thou never wearest thy hat in thy wife’s presence, I believe; dost thou?

None of your fleers and your jeers, Sir, cried John.  I wish every married pair lived as happily as we do.

I wish so too, honest friend.  But I’ll be hanged if thou hast any children.

Why so, Sir?

Hast thou?—­Answer me, man:  Hast thou, or not?

Perhaps not, Sir.  But what of that?

What of that?—­Why I’ll tell thee:  The man who has no children by his wife must put up with plain John.  Hadst thou a child or two, thou’dst be called Mr. Smith, with a courtesy, or a smile at least, at every word.

You are very pleasant, Sir, replied my dame.  I fancy, if either my husband or I had as much to answer for as I know whom, we should not be so merry.

Why then, dame Smith, so much the worse for those who were obliged to keep you company.  But I am not merry—­I am sad!—­Hey-ho!—­Where shall I find my dear Miss Harlowe?

My beloved Miss Harlowe! [calling at the foot of the third pair of stairs,] if you are above, for Heaven’s sake answer me.  I am coming up.