"Shilly-shallying, indeed! There's very little shall in it, I can assure you."
The poor man was dreadfully crestfallen, so much so that the widow's heart relented, and she pardoned him. It was not in her nature to quarrel with people;—at any rate, not with her lovers. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow," said the culprit, humbly. "It is granted," said the widow; "but never tell a lady again that she is shilly-shallying. And look here, Mr. Cheesacre, if it should ever come to pass that you are making love to a lady in earnest—"
"I couldn't be more in earnest," said he.
"That you are making love to a lady in earnest, talk to her a little more about your passion and a little less about your purse. Now, good night."
"But we are friends."
"Oh yes;—as good friends as ever."
Cheesacre, as he drove himself home in the dark, tried to console himself by thinking of the miserable plight in which Bellfield would find himself at Norwich, with no possessions but what he had brought into the town that day in a small bag. But as he turned in at his own gate he met two figures emerging; one of them was laden with a portmanteau, and the other with a hat case.
"It's only me, Cheesy, my boy," said Bellfield. "I've just come down by the rail to fetch my things, and I'm going back to Norwich by the 9.20.
"If you've stolen anything of mine I'll have you prosecuted," roared Cheesacre, as he drove his gig up to his own door.