It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-folded kid gloves⁠—bound up in each other.

“I have forgotten my flowers,” said the spinster aunt.

“Water them now,” said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.

“You will take cold in the evening air,” urged the spinster aunt affectionately.