"Do you really say so, Arthur ?" "Say so; of course, I say so.

Down with it.

Here's Mrs.Smirke's good health: Hip, hip, hurray!" Smirke convulsively gulped down his glass of wine, and Pen waved his over his head, cheering so as to make his mother and Laura wonder on the lawn, and his uncle, who was dozing over the paper in the drawing-room, start, and say to himself, "That boy's drinking too much." Smirke put down the glass.
"I accept the omen," gasped out the blushing Curate.

"Oh my dear Arthur, you--you know her----" "What--Myra Portman?
I wish you joy; she's got a dev'lish large waist; but I wish you joy, old fellow." "Oh, Arthur!" groaned the Curate again, and nodded his head, speechless.
"Beg your pardon--sorry I offended you--but she has got a large waist, you know--devilish large waist," Pen continued--the third bottle evidently beginning to act upon the young gentleman.
"It's not Miss Portman," the other said, in a voice of agony.
"Is it anybody at Chatteris or at Clapham?
Somebody here?
No--it ain't old Pybus?
it can't be Miss Rolt at the Factory--she's only fourteen." "It's somebody rather older than I am, Pen," the Curate cried, looking up at his friend, and then guiltily casting his eyes down into his plate.
Pen burst out laughing.

"It's Madame Fribsby; by Jove, it's Madame Fribsby.