when I and Donne urged him to make a choice amongst the fair bevy, he named—which do you think?”
With a queer, quiet smile, Mr. Moore replied, “Dora, of course, or Harriet.”
“Ha! ha! you’ve an excellent guess; but what made you hit on those two?”
“Because they are the tallest, the handsomest; and Dora, at least, is the stoutest; and as your friend, Mr. Sweeting, is but a little, slight figure, I concluded that, according to a frequent rule in such cases, he preferred his contrast.”
“You are right; Dora it is: but he has no chance, has he, Moore?”
“What has Mr. Sweeting, besides his curacy?”
This question seemed to tickle Malone amazingly; he laughed for full three minutes before he answered it.
“What has Sweeting? Why David has his harp, or flute, which comes to the same thing. He has a sort of pinchbeck watch; ditto, ring; ditto, eye-glass: that’s what he has.”
“How would he propose to keep Miss Sykes in gowns only?”
“Ha! ha! Excellent! I’ll ask him that next time I see him. I’ll roast him for his presumption; but no doubt he expects old Christopher Sykes would do something handsome. He is rich, is he not? They live in a large house.”
“Sykes carries on an extensive concern.”
