SHORT. I tell you I want to have a chat with you--come, sit by me.
MRS. SHORT. (_taking her work and sitting at table, L._) Very well,
what shall we chat about?
SHORT. Don't sit so far off. (_he is about to rise to go nearer to
her, but sinks back again into the chair_) There's my leg again!
Weugh!--what a grinder!--I haven't got rid of my gout yet. (_about to
rise_)
MRS. SHORT. (_running to him with footstool_) Don't get up! Don't get
up! you'll hurt yourself--here, take this footstool.
SHORT. (_rubbing his leg, and putting it on footstool, and then sits,
L._) Ah! that's better! That's more comfortable! (_aside_) If that
silly fellow, Sweet, could but see me! (_aloud_) I am as snug now as a
bug in a rug--what would poor Sweet give to exchange places with
me--this spring cushion instead of a hard saddle, and his leg up at
his ease!--talking of _him_ reminds me you haven't told me who's their
friend this morning? (_she seems to hesitate_) What don't you know?
MRS. SHORT. (_confused_) Yes, oh yes--Mr. Billington, I believe.
SHORT. Oh, Mr. Billington is it--a friend of the Sweet's--let's see,
we dine there to-day--a remarkably nice young man that Mr.
Billington--he is particularly civil to me lately whenever he meets me
in the City--I am sure nothing could be more polite and attentive than
his behaviour to us that night at the Sweet's, in town just before we
came down here--by the bye, how is it he never comes to _our_ house?
MRS. SHORT. (_confused_) Why--I--I--never asked him--you know you are
so much away from home--I am so often alone that I--
SHORT. You are quite right, my dear--perfectly correct, certainly!
Appearances must be attended to--very proper conduct on your
part--delicate and correct in the extreme. (_aside_) Ecod--Sweet's
right! I am the happiest fellow under the sun.
_Enter STEPHEN, L. C._
STEPH. Oh, sir! oh mum! such a shocking thing!
MRS. SHORT. Good gracious, Stephen, what's the matter?
STEPH. Oh, the poor gentleman! Poor Mr. Sweet!
SHORT. Why, what has happened to him?
STEPH. Oh, horrorble, sir! tremengeous! Throwed from his 'orse! dashed
his self to pieces!
MRS. SHORT. Oh, good heavens, where is he?
SHORT. Ah, this comes of steady men of business taking to riding, when
they're turned of five and forty! Poor fellow, poor fellow!
_Enter SWEET, L. C., frightened out of his wits, leaning on his wife
and STEPHEN, apparently in great pain--MRS. SHORT and SHORT run to
meet him._
SWEET. Oh, oh!
SHORT. My dear friend, what is it, tell me!
SWEET. (_in a feeble voice_) Thrown--thrown from my horse.
MRS. SWEET. (_with the greatest solicitude and affection_) _My poor_
husband! Quick, quick, the sofa! (_STEPHEN wheels sofa to C._) Lay him
on the sofa!--gently!--there place you head upon my arm. Where is it
you're in pain? _Do_ tell us?