“I told him that I thought so.”
“Then I suppose I am bound to have him,” said Miss Dunstable, dropping the letter on to the floor in mock despair.
“My dear, dear, dearest woman!” said Mrs. Gresham, bursting into tears, and throwing herself on to her friend’s neck.
“Mind you are a dutiful niece,” said Miss Dunstable. “And now let me go and finish dressing.”
In the course of the afternoon, an answer was sent back to Greshamsbury, in these words:—
Dear Dr. Thorne,—I do and will trust you in everything; and it shall be as you would have it. Mary writes to you; but do not believe a word she says. I never will again, for she has behaved so bad in this matter.
Yours affectionately and very truly,
Martha Dunstable.
“And so I am going to marry the richest woman in England,” said Dr. Thorne to himself, as he sat down that day to his mutton-chop.