Lady Tippins fancies she has collected the suffrages of the whole Committee (nobody dreaming of asking the Veneerings for their opinion), when, looking round the table through her eyeglass, she perceives Mr. Twemlow with his hand to his forehead.
Good gracious! My Twemlow forgotten! My dearest! My own! What is his vote?
Twemlow has the air of being ill at ease, as he takes his hand from his forehead and replies.
“I am disposed to think,” says he, “that this is a question of the feelings of a gentleman.”
“A gentleman can have no feelings who contracts such a marriage,” flushes Podsnap.
“Pardon me, sir,” says Twemlow, rather less mildly than usual, “I don’t agree with you. If this gentleman’s feelings of gratitude, of respect, of admiration, and affection, induced him (as I presume they did) to marry this lady—”
“This lady!”