At length, the anxious mother permitted herself to be soothed into a more tranquil state, and the little Kenwigses, being also composed, were distributed among the company, to prevent the possibility of Mrs. Kenwigs being again overcome by the blaze of their combined beauty. This done, the ladies and gentlemen united in prophesying that they would live for many, many years, and that there was no occasion at all for Mrs. Kenwigs to distress herself; which, in good truth, there did not appear to be; the loveliness of the children by no means justifying her apprehensions.
‘This day eight year,’ said Mr. Kenwigs after a pause. ‘Dear me—ah!’
This reflection was echoed by all present, who said ‘Ah!’ first, and ‘dear me,’ afterwards.
‘I was younger then,’ tittered Mrs. Kenwigs.
‘No,’ said the collector.
‘Certainly not,’ added everybody.
‘I remember my niece,’ said Mr. Lillyvick, surveying his audience with a grave air; ‘I remember her, on that very afternoon, when she first acknowledged to her mother a partiality for Kenwigs. “Mother,” she says, “I love him.”’
‘“Adore him,” I said, uncle,’ interposed Mrs. Kenwigs.
‘“Love him,” I think, my dear,’ said the collector, firmly.
‘Perhaps you are right, uncle,’ replied Mrs. Kenwigs, submissively. ‘I thought it was “adore.”’