`Noo,' said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and the ladies and the luggage hurried in, `gang to the Sarah's Head, mun.'
`To the vere?' cried the coachman.
`Lawk, Mr Browdie!' interrupted Miss Squeers. `The idea! Saracen's Head.'
`Sure-ly,' said John, `I know'd it was something aboot Sarah's Son's Head. Dost thou know thot?'
`Oh, ah -- I know that,' replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the door.
`'Tilda, dear -- really,' remonstrated Miss Squeers, `we shall be taken for I don't know what.'
`Let them tak us as they foind us,' said John Browdie; `we dean't come to Lunnun to do nought but 'joy oursel, do we?'
`I hope not, Mr Browdie,' replied Miss Squeers, looking singularly dismal.
`Well, then,' said John, `it's no matther. I've only been a married man fower days, 'account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin' it off. Here be a weddin' party -- broide and broide's-maid, and the groom -- if a mun dean't 'joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it all, thot's what I want to know.'
So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, and lose no time, Mr Browdie gave his wife a hearty kiss, and succeeded in wresting another from Miss Squeers, after a maidenly resistance of scratching and struggling on the part of that young lady, which was not quite over when they reached the Saracen's Head.
Here, the party straightway retired to rest; the refreshment of sleep being necessary after so long a journey; and here they met again about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction of Mr John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commanding an uninterrupted view of the stables.
To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested of the brown beaver, the green veil, and the blue curl-papers, and arrayed in all the virgin splendour of a white frock and spencer, with a white muslin bonnet, and an imitative damask rose in full bloom on the inside thereof: her luxuriant crop of hair arranged in curls so tight that it was impossible they could come out by any accident, and her bonnet-cap trimmed with little damask roses, which might be supposed to be so many promising scions of the big one -- to have seen all this, and to have seen the broad damask belt, matching both the family rose and the little ones, which encircled her slender waist, and by a happy ingenuity took off from the shortness of the spencer behind, -- to have beheld all this, and to have taken further into account the coral bracelets (rather short of beads, and with a very visible black string) which clasped her wrists, and the coral necklace which rested on her neck, supporting, outside her frock, a lonely cornelian heart, typical of her own disengaged affections -- to have contemplated all these mute but expressive appeals to the purest feelings of our nature, might have thawed the frost of age, and added new and inextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.
The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had human passions and feelings, and he looked very hard at Miss Squeers as he handed the muffins.
`Is my pa in, do you know?' asked Miss Squeers with dignity.
`Beg your pardon, miss?'
`My pa,' repeated Miss Squeers; `is he in?'
`In where, miss?'
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