“Yes, Sir, and now I think of it--” but here Mr. Dixon was cut short in his items, by the entrance of a third person, who proved to be Mrs. Clutterbuck. “What, not dressed yet, Mr. Clutterbuck; what a dawdler you are!--and do look--was ever woman so used? you have wiped your razor upon my nightcap--you dirty, slovenly--” “I crave you many pardons; I own my error!” said Clutterbuck, in a nervous tone of interruption. “Error, indeed!” cried Mrs. Clutterbuck, in a sharp, overstretched, querulous falsetto, suited to the occasion: “but this is always the case--I am sure, my poor temper is tried to the utmost--and Lord help thee, idiot! you have thrust those spindle legs of yours into your coat-sleeves instead of your breeches!” “Of a truth, good wife, your eyes are more discerning than mine; and my legs, which are, as you say, somewhat thin, have indued themselves in what appertaineth not unto them; but for all that, Dorothea, I am not deserving of the epithet of idiot, with which you have been pleased to favour me; although my humble faculties are indeed of no eminent or surpassing order--” “Pooh! pooh! Mr. Clutterbuck, I am sure, I don’t know what else you are, muddling your head all day with those good-for-nothing books. And now do tell me, how you could think of asking Mr. Pelham to dinner, when you knew we had nothing in the world but hashed mutton and an apple pudding? Is that the way, Sir, you disgrace your wife, after her condescension in marrying you?” “Really,” answered the patient Clutterbuck, “I was forgetful of those matters; but my friend cares as little as myself, about the grosser tastes of the table; and the feast of intellectual converse is all that he desires in his brief sojourn beneath our roof.” “Feast of fiddlesticks, Mr. Clutterbuck! did ever man talk such nonsense?” “Besides,” rejoined the master of the house, unheeding this interruption, “we have a luxury even of the palate, than which there are none more delicate, and unto which he, as well as myself, is, I know, somewhat unphilosophically given; I speak of the oysters, sent here by our good friend, Dr. Swallow’em.” “What do you mean, Mr. Clutterbuck? My poor mother and I had those oysters last night for our supper. I am sure she as well as my sister are almost starved; but you are always wanting to be pampered up above us all.” “Nay, nay,” answered Clutterbuck, “you know you accuse me wrongfully, Dorothea; but now I think of it, would it not be better to modulate the tone of our conversation, seeing that our guest, (a circumstance which until now quite escaped my recollection,) was shown into the next room, for the purpose of washing his hands, the which, from their notable cleanliness, seemed to me wholly unnecessary. I would not have him overhear you, Dorothea, lest his kind heart should imagine me less happy than--than it wishes me.”