So, Twemlow goes home to Duke Street, St. James’s, to take a plate of mutton broth with a chop in it, and a look at the marriage-service, in order that he may cut in at the right place tomorrow; and he is low, and feels it dull over the livery stable-yard, and is distinctly aware of a dint in his heart, made by the most adorable of the adorable bridesmaids. For, the poor little harmless gentleman once had his fancy, like the rest of us, and she didn’t answer (as she often does not), and he thinks the adorable bridesmaid is like the fancy as she was then (which she is not at all), and that if the fancy had not married someone else for money, but had married him for love, he and she would have been happy (which they wouldn’t have been), and that she has a tenderness for him still (whereas her toughness is a proverb). Brooding over the fire, with his dried little head in his dried little hands, and his dried little elbows on his dried little knees, Twemlow is melancholy. “No Adorable to bear me company here!” thinks he. “No Adorable at the club! A waste, a waste, a waste, my Twemlow!” And so drops asleep, and has galvanic starts all over him.