thoughtful way; "for, my lad, I should make you a very fiend and Tartar of a wife. Your hair is pretty straight at present, but let us set up matrimony for six months and I would curl it for you."
"By thunder, you would not!" he cries, sharp as the crackling of a musket, and the fire that darted from his eye I thought worthy of a classical quotation; "you would be mild as a milk-breasted dove and the obedientest little wifie in the world."
"Milk-breasted dove! Obedientest little wifie! I should indeed," says I, putting on my fury-look. Poor Mrs. Polly and the fops of London were wont to tremble at it horribly, but Mr. Anthony never so much as honoured it with a blink.
"Six months," says he, quite calmly, "and 'twould be, 'Barbara, bring my slippers hither,' and hither would they come, without one solitary word."
"Without one solitary word?" says I; "come, that is an exaggeration now. I'm sure I should reply, 'certainly, my lord,' and drop a curtsey to your honour's worship."
"Not even that," he said; "without one solitary word. And I should say, 'Barbara, fetch my snuff-*box,' 'Barbara, darn my hose,' and so forth. And you would do it with an instant obedience that would make you a pattern to your sex."
"I suppose your honour would beat me if I failed to do this."
