_Nutts._ (_Aside to Peabody._) Thank’ee, Mr P. You’ve helped me well out of _that_, like a gentleman with a scholar. Consider that I owe you a shave. Why, at this moment, 1847--like a new-born babby--Time hasn’t a hair on his chin. No; I consider him a nice smart young chap, with a very clean face--a very straight back--a merry twinkle in his eye--a sprig of green holly in his mouth--and quite ready to draw, wherever he’s invited, for Twelfth-cake--and dance with all women afterwards. _Mrs Nutts._ Yes, that’s your notion of Time; and a married man, too! All very well; but I don’t see that Time’s any reason to look so smart, and go dancing about with anybody but his own wife--and that, too, when his bills for last year ain’t paid. _Nutts._ (_Aside to Peabody._) Now isn’t that like ’em, Mr P.? The worst of a wife is she always goes for realities. It isn’t an opinion to put forth to the world, but my notion is that romance--like brandy--was only made for man. Sometimes when I’m up in the clouds, a-going here and a-flying there, and doing I don’t know what--well, at that moment, that good woman there--the wife of my busum--says somethin’, and down I drop in a lump, like a dead eagle with a bullet in his belly. _Mrs Nutts._ Not very good manners, Mr Nutts, I think, to the rest of your customers--to keep a-muttering there to Mr Peabody. But I suppose _that’s_ one of your new leaves. _Nutts._ Was only asking him, my dear, if Time--like some of the linen-drapers--didn’t sometimes shave the ladies. And Mr Peabody said there could be no doubt on ’t, you did look this new year so fresh and blooming. _Mrs Nutts._ Mr Peabody, though disgised as a policeman, as I may say, _is_ a gentleman. _Nosebag._ Always was, from a child. Heyday! Why, Nutts, how smart the cats look, too!--both on ’em, Whig and Tory. Spick-and-span new collars! _Nutts._ Yes; poor brutes! Couldn’t do less, you see. Parliament meets on the nineteenth, and out o’ special compliment to what’s called its wisdom--and considerin’ it’s the new year--I’ve given ’em collars. Whig looks rather serous, doesn’t he? _Tickle._ Well, I must say there is a sort of thoughtful look about his whiskers. He _does_ get very like Lord John, somehow. _Nutts._ Poor fellow! There is rayther a few mice to catch for him, isn’t there? _Slowgoe._ Well, Tory’s the cretur for my money. Really a beautiful animal, and a credit to any house. _Nutts._ Why, she has been, to say the hard and serous truth, a very devil in her time. But she’s old, very old, and wheezy now. Teeth’s nearly gone, and claws worn to the stumps. Here, Tory, Tory! Look at her, poor old cretur! All she can do now is to purr; she hasn’t strength enough in her for a good squall of the good old times. Talking of the likeness of Whig and Lord John--do now just observe that Tory; all in a lump of cosy fur, with her eyes half-shut, and her head a leetle on one side, is she not the very spit of the late lamented Lord Eldon?