Stanhope. If I don't mind his orders he won't mind my draughts.
Englishman. What, does the old prig threaten, then? Threatened folks live long; never mind threats.
Stanhope. No, I can't say that he has ever threatened me in his life; but I believe I had best not provoke him.
Englishman. Pooh! you would have one angry letter from the old fellow, and there would be an end of it.
Stanhope. You mistake him mightily; he always does more than he says. He has never been angry with me yet, that I remember, in his life; but if I were to provoke him, I am sure he would never forgive me; he would be coolly immovable, and I might beg and pray, and write my heart out to no purpose.
Englishman. Why then, he is an old dog, that's all I can say: and pray, are you to obey your dry-nurse too, this same what's his name—Mr. Harte?
Stanhope. Yes.
Englishman. So he stuffs you all morning with Greek, and Latin, and logic, and all that. Egad, I have a dry-nurse too, but I never looked into a book with him in my life; I have not so much as seen the face of him this week, and don't care a louse if I never see it again.
