ROBERT: No, sir. It seems he’s vanished away again, being badly wanted by the preventive authorities. For I did ’appen to hear as ’twas him as is judged responsible for most o’ the casualties, sir. SIR JOHN: To be sure, he was wearing his old frieze coat! Ha’ you been far abroad this morning, Bob? ROBERT: I did ’appen to step across the fields, sir. SIR JOHN: Very right, Bob. Health! Sunshine! Dew! ROBERT: It was a little doo-ey, sir. SIR JOHN: And you carried the basket, Bob, of course? ROBERT: Basket, sir...? SIR JOHN: HER basket, Bob ... and pray keep the shaving-brush out o’ my mouth! ROBERT: Your pardon, sir! SIR JOHN: Her basket, Bob! ROBERT: I judged it over heavy for a young fe—— SIR JOHN: Damsel, Bob. ROBERT: Yes, sir. SIR JOHN: To be sure ’twas too heavy—and I fancy you ha’ lathered me enough. ROBERT: I think so too, sir. SIR JOHN: She hath a remarkably neat foot, Bob! ROBERT: I have ob-served same, sir. SIR JOHN: And her voice grows upon one.... A voice suggestive of a nature sweet and—— ROBERT: One moment, sir—your upper lip! (A moment’s silence while the Corporal plies deft razor.) SIR JOHN: I chanced to see her in converse with a young ... creature, Robert—a tall young woman in a laced cap? ROBERT: I re-marked same young person myself, sir. SIR JOHN: Is she a friend of Mistress Ann’s? ROBERT: Not knowing, can’t say, sir. SIR JOHN: Do you chance to know anything about this—er—young person? ROBERT: Nothing, sir, except as she seems to run very much to legs—— SIR JOHN: Legs—begad! ROBERT: Pre-cisely, sir ... leggy, your honour. SIR JOHN: Ha, leggy! Didn’t you think her a young goddess? ROBERT: She didn’t strike me as such, sir. SIR JOHN: But you must ha’ remarked her beauty? ROBERT: Nothing to mention, sir. SIR JOHN: But damme—her shape! Her form! Her air! Her carriage! Her grace! ROBERT: Too much of ’em all, sir. SIR JOHN: ’S death, man—you must be blind! ROBERT: Very good, sir. SIR JOHN: No, Bob, not blind—thou’rt merely in love and that is infinitely worse. ROBERT: It is, sir! SIR JOHN: Why, then, go a-wooing, man, go a-wooing and put thyself out o’ thy misery one way or t’other. ROBERT: Can’t be done, sir. Misery must be endoored. SIR JOHN: Because thou’rt forty-five, Bob? ROBERT: And she’s scarce twenty turned, sir. “Ha!” exclaimed Sir John portentously. “Hum!” And, his toilet at last accomplished, he ran lightly down the stair to find awaiting him a most inviting breakfast, of which he made short work, despite Mr. Bunkle’s shocked remonstrances and reproachful looks.