Poor little Twemlow, quite done up, is touched, and still continues touched after he is safely housed over the livery-stable yard in Duke Street, Saint James’s. But there, upon his sofa, a tremendous consideration breaks in upon the mild gentleman, putting all softer considerations to the rout.

“Gracious heavens! Now I have time to think of it, he never saw one of his constituents in all his days, until we saw them together!”

After having paced the room in distress of mind, with his hand to his forehead, the innocent Twemlow returns to his sofa and moans:

“I shall either go distracted, or die, of this man. He comes upon me too late in life. I am not strong enough to bear him!”