'Is it owing to the
bees, who, when the honey season is over, and they are supposed to
have been killed with brimstone, in reality fly to Barbary and lull the
captive Moors to sleep with their drowsy songs? Or is it,' he added,
dropping his voice almost to a whisper, 'in consequence of the statue
at Charing Cross having been lately seen, on the Stock Exchange
at midnight, walking arm-in-arm with the Pump from Aldgate, in a
riding-habit?'
'Mama,' murmured Kate, 'do you hear him?'
'Hush, my dear!' replied Mrs Nickleby, in the same tone of voice, 'he
is very polite, and I think that was a quotation from the poets. Pray,
don't worry me so--you'll pinch my arm black and blue. Go away, sir!'
'Quite away?' said the gentleman, with a languishing look. 'Oh! quite
away?'
'Yes,' returned Mrs Nickleby, 'certainly. You have no business here.
This is private property, sir; you ought to know that.'
'I do know,' said the old gentleman, laying his finger on his nose, with
an air of familiarity, most reprehensible, 'that this is a sacred and
enchanted spot, where the most divine charms'--here he kissed his hand
and bowed again--'waft mellifluousness over the neighbours' gardens, and
force the fruit and vegetables into premature existence.
Pages:
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963