“Oh, admirable!” exclaimed Mrs. Tattle, clapping her hands. “Now, brother, suppose that it is after dinner,” said Marianne; “and show us how the doctor goes to sleep.” Frederick threw himself back in an arm-chair, leaning his head back, with his mouth open, snoring; nodded from time to time, crossed and uncrossed his legs, tried to awake himself by twitching his wig, settling his collar, blowing his nose and rapping on the lid of his snuff-box. All which infinitely diverted Mrs. Tattle, who, when she could stop herself from laughing, declared “It made her sigh, too, to think of the life poor Mrs. Carbuncle led with that man, and all for nothing, too; for her jointure was nothing, next to nothing, though a great thing, to be sure, her friends thought for her, when she was only Sally Ridgeway before she was married. Such a wife as she makes,” continued Mrs. Theresa, lifting up her hands and eyes to heaven, “and so much as she has gone through, the brute ought to be ashamed of himself if he does not leave her something extraordinary in his will; for turn it which way she will, she can never keep a carriage, or live like anybody else, on her jointure, after all, she tells me, poor soul! A sad prospect, after her husband’s death, to look forward to, instead of being comfortable, as her friends expected; and she, poor young thing! knowing no better when they married her! People should look into these things, beforehand, or never marry at all, I say, Miss Marianne.” Miss Marianne, who did not clearly comprehend this affair of the jointure, or the reason why Mrs. Carbuncle would be so unhappy after her husband’s death, turned to Frederick, who was at that instant studying Mrs. Theresa as a future character to mimic. “Brother,” said Marianne, “now sing an Italian song for us like Miss Croker. Pray, Miss Croker, favour us with a song. Mrs. Theresa Tattle has never had the pleasure of hearing you sing; she’s quite impatient to hear you sing.” “Yes, indeed, I am,” said Mrs. Theresa. Frederick put his hands before him affectedly; “Oh, indeed, ma’am! indeed, ladies! I really am so hoarse, it distresses me so to be pressed to sing; besides, upon my word, I have quite left off singing. I’ve never sung once, except for very particular people, this winter.” _Mar._ But Mrs. Theresa Tattle is a very particular person. I’m sure you’ll sing for her. _Fred._ Certainly, ma’am, I allow that you use a powerful argument; but I assure you now, I would do my best to oblige you, but I absolutely have forgotten all my English songs. Nobody hears anything but Italian now, and I have been so giddy as to leave my Italian music behind me. Besides, I make it a rule never to hazard myself without an accompaniment. _Mar._ Oh, try, Miss Croker, for once. [_Frederick sings_, _after much preluding_.] Violante in the pantry, Gnawing of a mutton-bone; How she gnawed it, How she claw’d it, When she found herself alone!