“Pa,” said Bella, “we have got a murderer for a tenant.”
“Pa,” said Lavinia, “we have got a robber.”
“To see him unable for his life to look anybody in the face!” said Bella. “There never was such an exhibition.”
“My dears,” said their father, “he is a diffident gentleman, and I should say particularly so in the society of girls of your age.”
“Nonsense, our age!” cried Bella, impatiently. “What’s that got to do with him?”
“Besides, we are not of the same age:—which age?” demanded Lavinia.
“Never you mind, Lavvy,” retorted Bella; “you wait till you are of an age to ask such questions. Pa, mark my words! Between Mr. Rokesmith and me, there is a natural antipathy and a deep distrust; and something will come of it!”
“My dear, and girls,” said the cherub-patriarch, “between Mr. Rokesmith and me, there is a matter of eight sovereigns, and something for supper shall come of it, if you’ll agree upon the article.”
This was a neat and happy turn to give the subject, treats being rare in the Wilfer household, where a monotonous appearance of Dutch-cheese at ten o’clock in the evening had been rather frequently commented on by the dimpled shoulders of Miss Bella. Indeed, the modest Dutchman himself seemed conscious of his want of variety, and generally came before the family in a state of apologetic perspiration. After some discussion on the relative merits of veal-cutlet, sweetbread, and lobster, a decision was pronounced in favour of veal-cutlet. Mrs. Wilfer then solemnly divested herself of her handkerchief and gloves, as a preliminary sacrifice to preparing the frying-pan, and R. W. himself went out to