“No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins’s Meadows.”

“How should he know anything about it?” inquired the old lady indignantly. “Miller’s a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so.” Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hardheaded delinquent.

“Come, come,” said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the conversation, “what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?”

“I should like it of all things,” replied that gentleman; “but pray don’t make up one on my account.”