‘My dear ma’am—my dear young lady,’ cried brother Charles in violent agitation, ‘pray don’t—not another word, I beseech and entreat you! I implore you—I beg of you—to rise. We—we—are not alone.’

‘You are right,’ returned Newman.

‘Like it!’ cried Mrs Borum. ‘Who can help liking it? I would go to the play, twice a week if I could: I dote upon it—only you’re too affecting sometimes. You do put me in such a state—into such fits of crying! Goodness gracious me, Miss Lane, how can you let them torment that poor child so!’