As Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed tumultuously into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, leading after him by the hand, the identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the boots with the fur round the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound of blushes and confusion, and lilac silk, and a smart bonnet, and a rich lace veil, looked prettier than ever.

“Miss Arabella Allen!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair.

“No,” replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees. “ Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, my dear friend, pardon!”