_Just._ Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.—Oh, my foot, girl, my foot!—you kill me. Go, go, I’m busy. I’ve business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love? _Lucy_. And the old man, papa? _Just._ What old man? I tell you what, I’ve been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can’t wait, let him go about his business. Don’t you know, child, I never see anybody till I’ve drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke—that’s poz! Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can’t wait, he can go about his business, can’t he? _Lucy_. Oh, sir, he can wait. It was not he who was impatient. (She comes back playfully.) It was only I, papa; don’t be angry. _Just._ Well, well, well (_finishing his cup of chocolate_, _and pushing his dish away_); and at anyrate there was not sugar enough. Send William, send William, child; and I’ll finish my own business, and then— (_Exit Lucy_, _dancing_, “_And then_!—_and then_!”) JUSTICE, _alone_. _Just._ Oh, this foot of mine!—(_twinges_)—Oh, this foot! Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but, as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it’s nonsense; it’s all nonsense; I can’t do it; I can’t, and won’t, for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that’s poz! _Enter_ WILLIAM. _Just._ William—oh! ay! hey! what answer, pray, did you bring from the “Saracen’s Head”? Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you? _Will._ Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself; she said she would come up immediately, sir. _Just._ Ah, that’s well—immediately? _Will._ Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now. _Just._ Oh, show her up; show Mrs. Bustle in. _Enter_ MRS. BUSTLE, _the landlady of the_ “_Saracen’s Head_.” _Land._ Good morrow to your worship! I’m glad to see your worship look so purely. I came up with all speed (_taking breath_). Our pie is in the oven; that was what you sent for me about, I take it. _Just._ True; true; sit down, good Mrs. Bustle, pray— _Land._ Oh, your worship’s always very good (_settling her apron_). I came up just as I was—only threw my shawl over me. I thought your worship would excuse—I’m quite, as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty— _Just._ Oh, I’m very hearty (_coughing_), always hearty, and thankful for it. I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle. And so our pie is in the oven, I think you say? _Land._ In the oven it is. I put it in with my own hands; and if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goose-pie—though I say it that should not say it—as pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eyes upon. _Just._ Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs. Bustle?—I have some nice usquebaugh.