‘Indeed, my dear (puff), I don’t see that (wheeze),’ replied Jogglebury, mildly.

’Why, now, if you were to try and get this rich Mr. Sponge for a god-papa for Gustavus James,’ continued she, drying her eyes as she came to the point, ‘that, I should say, would be worthy of you.’

‘But, my (puff) dear,’ replied Jogglebury, ’I don’t know Mr. (wheeze) Sponge, to begin with.’

‘That’s nothing,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury; ’he’s a stranger, and you should call upon him.’

Mr. Jogglebury sat silent, still staring at Lord Brougham, thinking how he pitched into him, and how sick he was when the jury, without retiring from the box, gave five hundred pounds damages against him.

‘He’s a fox-hunter, too,’ continued his wife; ’and you ought to be civil to him.’

’Well, but, my (puff) dear, he’s as likely to (wheeze) these fifty years as any (puff, wheeze) man I ever looked at,’ replied Jogglebury.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury; ’there’s no saying when a fox-hunter may break his neck.  My word! but Mrs. Slooman tells me pretty stories of Sloo’s doings with the harriers—­jumping over hurdles, and everything that comes in the way, and galloping along the stony lanes as if the wind was a snail compared to his horse.  I tell you.  Jog, you should call on this gentleman—­’

‘Well,’ replied Mr. Jogglebury.

‘And ask him to come and stay here,’ continued Mrs. Jogglebury.

‘Perhaps he mightn’t like it (puff),’ replied Jogglebury.  ’I don’t know that we could (puff) entertain him as he’s (wheeze) accustomed to be,’ added he.

‘Oh, nonsense,’ replied Mrs. Jogglebury; ’we can entertain him well enough.  You always say fox-hunters are not ceremonious.  I tell you what, Jog, you don’t think half enough of yourself.  You are far too easily set aside.  My word! but I know some people who would give themselves pretty airs if their husband was chairman of a board of guardians, and trustee of I don’t know how many of Her Majesty’s turnpike roads,’ Mrs. Jog here thinking of her sister Mrs. Springwheat, who, she used to say, had married a mere farmer.  ’I tell you, Jog, you’re far too humble, you don’t think half enough of yourself.’

’Well, but, my (puff) dear, you don’t (puff) consider that all people ain’t (puff) fond of (wheeze) children,’ observed Jogglebury, after a pause.  ‘Indeed, I’ve (puff) observed that some (wheeze) don’t like them.’

’Oh, but those will be nasty little brats, like Mrs. James Wakenshaw’s, or Mrs. Tom Cheek’s.  But such children as ours! such charmers! such delights! there isn’t a man in the county, from the Lord-Lieutenant downwards, who wouldn’t be proud—­who wouldn’t think it a compliment—­to be asked to be god-papa to such children.  I tell you what, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, it would be far better to get them rich god-papas and god-mammas than to leave them a whole house full of sticks.’