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 though he's only a loafer, he is terribly in the way. You must see my good man,—I mean bad man,—that, as Lord Palmerston said of dirt, you are "matter in the wrong place." I have something very particular to say to this young lady, who has been much too good to you; and you are a most awkward and inopportune person.

—Seems to me, sir, I just came in the nick of time.

—O yes, for breakfast; I hope you found something to eat.

—I can't go and leave you alone with that ferocious ruffian.

—You need not be afraid for me; for though he is not a Civilian, he is an Englishman; and I am sure he wouldn't hurt me. To Wilmot.—Would you now? (Wilmot smiles.)

—Pray don't provoke him. (Aside on exit): I don't half like that fellow!

—Well, Edith, on the whole, I think I did well to come. They don't give us half such a breakfast at our Mess, and—(significantly)—I have made the acquaintance of Mr. Smallweed.

(maliciously).—Yes,—isn't he nice?

—Oh! awfully! But I should like to punch his head all the same.

—I am afraid you must go back to durance vile now, Frank.

—And you won't forget me, will you, Edith, in spite of Sanscrit inscriptions, Brahminy bulls, and the amiable Mr. Smallweed?

(tenderly).—Do you really think I did forget you, or am likely to forget you? If you are very good, I will give you something to read in your confinement,—a letter I was going to send to Auntie to forward to you. (Gives Wilmot a letter, which he takes eagerly.) Oh! it isn't sentimental or anything of that sort. You know, Frank, we never did spoon. Did we?

(kissing her with effusion).—No, never.

—I hear Nubbee Baksh coughing outside, and I fear you must go. Good-bye, you dear old loafer.

(Exit Edith, kissing her hand. Nubbee Baksh collars Wilmot with a mock air of sternness. Tableau.)