on us, what a clattering of trenchers!—How do you like them?
Char. Oh they are such savages! I'm sure if I had not put lavender on my pocket handkerchief, like Mama, I should have fainted away.
Charles. How can you talk of fainting with cheeks like two cabbage roses?
Char. Cabbage roses!
Charles. No, no—pest take it!—I mean the pretty, delicate damask rose.
Char. La, now you are flattering me!
Charles. I am not indeed, Charlotte! you have the prettiest—(peeping at the other room and stopping short.)
Char. (eagerly) I have the prettiest what!
Charles. Is that a venison pasty they have got yonder!
Char. Poo, never mind!—have the prettiest what?
Charles. Yes, I mean the most beautiful (peeping again) By my faith and so it is a venison pasty, and a monstrous good smell it has!
(Exit hastily into the eating room.
Char. (looking after him.) What a nasty creature he is! he has no more sense than one of our pointers; he's always running after a good smell.
(Exit.
