“And then he asked my name, did he, pa?”
“Then he asked your name, my dear, and mine; and on other Sunday mornings, when we walked his way, we saw him again, and—and really that’s all.”
As that was all the rum and water too, or, in other words, as R. W. delicately signified that his glass was empty, by throwing back his head and standing the glass upside down on his nose and upper lip, it might have been charitable in Mrs. Wilfer to suggest replenishment. But that heroine briefly suggesting “Bedtime” instead, the bottles were put away, and the family retired; she cherubically escorted, like some severe saint in a painting, or merely human matron allegorically treated.
“And by this time tomorrow,” said Lavinia when the two girls were alone in their room, “we shall have Mr. Rokesmith here, and shall be expecting to have our throats cut.”
“You needn’t stand between me and the candle for all that,” retorted Bella. “This is another of the consequences of being poor! The idea of a girl with a really fine head of hair, having to do it by one flat candle and a few inches of looking-glass!”
“You caught George Sampson with it, Bella, bad as your means of dressing it are.”
“You low little thing. Caught George Sampson with it! Don’t talk about catching people, miss, till your own time for catching—as you call it—comes.”
“Perhaps it has come,” muttered Lavvy, with a toss of her head.