“Calling at the bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby’s address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister,” observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out.

“Mother Sparsit!” said Tom. “What! you have seen her already, have you?”

His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger.

“Mother Sparsit’s feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should think,” said Tom. “Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!”