Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, Mr. Swiveller
determined to take the first opportunity of addressing his companion. An
occasion soon presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a
knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage, upon which Mr. Swiveller
called out as loud as he could--"Two for his heels!"

The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped her hands.

"Arabian Night certainly," thought Mr. Swiveller; "they always clap
their hands, instead of ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black
slaves with jars and jewels on their heads!"

It appeared however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy, as
directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry, declaring, not
in choice Arabic, but in familiar English, that she was "so glad she
didn't know what to do."

"Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "will you have the goodness to inform
me where I shall find my voice; and what has become of my flesh?"

The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again,
whereupon Mr. Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes
affected likewise.

"I begin to infer, Marchioness," said Richard, after a pause, "that I
have been ill."

"You just have!" replied the small servant, wiping her eyes. "Haven't
you been a-talking nonsense!"