LADY K.--Don't tell me. He comes from his club. He smells of smoke; he
is a low, vulgar person. Send Pinhorn up to me when you go down stairs.
[Exit Lady K.]

JOHN.--I know. Send Pinhorn to me, means, Send my bonny brown hair, and
send my beautiful complexion, and send my figure--and, O Lord! O Lord!
what an old tigress that is! What an old Hector! How she do twist
Milliken round her thumb! He's born to be bullied by women: and I
remember him henpecked--let's see, ever since--ever since the time of
that little gloveress at Woodstock, whose picter poor Mrs. M. made such
a noise about when she found it in the lumber-room. Heh! HER picture
will be going into the lumber-room some day. M. must marry to get rid
of his mother-in-law and mother over him: no man can stand it, not M.
himself, who's a Job of a man. Isn't he, look at him! [As he has been
speaking, the bell has rung, the Page has run to the garden-door, and
MILLIKEN enters through the garden, laden with a hamper, band-box, and
cricket-bat.]

MILLIKEN.--Why was the carriage not sent for me, Howell? There was no
cab at the station, and I have had to toil all the way up the hill with
these confounded parcels of my lady's.

JOHN.--I suppose the shower took off all the cabs, sir. When DID a man
ever git a cab in a shower?--or a policeman at a pinch--or a friend when
you wanted him--or anything at the right time, sir?

MILLIKEN.--But, sir, why didn't the carriage come, I say?

JOHN.--YOU know.