“My _dear_ uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in so many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to suggest this little point to you once more to make sure of your full acquiescence.” “Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!” “I am sure, my dearest uncle (you confounded old rascal!), that you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!—how very pleasant you are at times.” “Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!” “To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, uncle—in short, when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding shall—shall—come off, you know?” “Come off, you scoundrel!—what do you mean by that?—Better wait till it goes on.” “Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh, that’s good!—oh, that’s capital—_such_ a wit! But all we want just _now_, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time precisely.” “Ah!—precisely?” “Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.” “Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random—some time within a year or so, for example?—_must_ I say precisely?” “_If_ you please, uncle—precisely.” “Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t you?—since you _will_ have the exact time I’ll—why I’ll oblige you for once.” “Dear uncle!” “Hush, sir!” (drowning my voice)—“I’ll oblige you for once. You shall have my consent—and the _plum_, we mus’n’t forget the plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it? Well, then, you shall be married precisely—_precisely_, now mind!—_when three Sundays come together in a week!_ Do you hear me, sir! _What_ are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but not _till_ then—you young scapegrace—not _till_ then, if I die for it. You know me—_I’m a man of my word_—now be off!” Here he swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in despair.