'I'll trouble you for PUNCH, Mr. Wiggins' says the
unconscionable old gormandiser, interrupting our friend, who is laughing
over the periodical in question.
This kind of selfishness ought not to be. No, no. Young Smith, instead
of his dinner and his wine, ought to be, where?--at the festive
tea-table, to be sure, by the side of Miss Higgs, sipping the bohea, or
tasting the harmless muffin; while old Mrs. Higgs looks on, pleased at
their innocent dalliance, and my friend Miss Wirt, the governess, is
performing Thalberg's last sonata in treble X., totally unheeded, at the
piano.
Where should the middle-aged Jones be? At his time of life, he ought
to be the father of a family. At such an hour--say, at nine o'clock at
night--the nursery-bell should have just rung the children to bed. He
and Mrs. J. ought to be, by rights, seated on each side of the fire by
the dining-room table, a bottle of port-wine between them, not so full
as it was an hour since. Mrs. J. has had two glasses; Mrs. Grumble
(Jones's mother-in-law) has had three; Jones himself has finished the
rest, and dozes comfortably until bed-time.
And Brown, that old newspaper-devouring miscreant, what right has HE at
a club at a decent hour of night? He ought to be playing his rubber with
Miss MacWhirter, his wife, and the family apothecary. His candle ought
to be brought to him at ten o'clock, and he should retire to rest just
as the young people were thinking of a dance.
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