CHAPTER XXI.

Mrs. Trinket. What d'ye buy, what d'ye lack, gentlemen? Gloves,
ribbons, and essences,--ribbons, gloves, and essences.
ETHEREGE.

"And so, my love," said Mr. Copperas, one morning at breakfast, to his
wife, his right leg being turned over his left, and his dexter hand
conveying to his mouth a huge morsel of buttered cake,--"and, so my
love, they say that the old fool is going to leave the jackanapes all
his fortune?"

"They do say so, Mr. C.; for my part I am quite out of patience with
the art of the young man; I dare say he is no better than he should
be; he always had a sharp look, and for aught I know there may be more
in that robbery than you or I dreamed of, Mr. Copperas. It was a
pity," continued Mrs. Copperas, upbraiding her lord with true
matrimonial tenderness and justice, for the consequences of his having
acted from her advice,--"it was a pity, Mr. C., that you should have
refused to lend him the pistols to go to the old fellow's assistance,
for then who knows but--"

"I might have converted them into pocket pistols," interrupted Mr. C.,
"and not have overshot the mark, my dear--ha, ha, ha!"

"Lord, Mr. Copperas, you are always making a joke of everything."

"No, my dear, for once I am making a joke of nothing."

"Well, I declare it's shameful," cried Mrs. Copperas, still following