‘You never saw my friend Glavormelly, sir!’ said Miss Snevellicci’s papa. ‘Then you have never seen acting yet. If he had lived—’
‘Oh, he is dead, is he?’ interrupted Nicholas.
‘He is,’ said Mr. Snevellicci, ‘but he isn’t in Westminster Abbey, more’s the shame. He was a—. Well, no matter. He is gone to that bourne from whence no traveller returns. I hope he is appreciated there.’
So saying Miss Snevellicci’s papa rubbed the tip of his nose with a very yellow silk handkerchief, and gave the company to understand that these recollections overcame him.
‘Well, Mr. Lillyvick,’ said Nicholas, ‘and how are you?’
‘Quite well, sir,’ replied the collector. ‘There is nothing like the married state, sir, depend upon it.’
‘Indeed!’ said Nicholas, laughing.
‘Ah! nothing like it, sir,’ replied Mr. Lillyvick solemnly. ‘How do you think,’ whispered the collector, drawing him aside, ‘how do you think she looks tonight?’
‘As handsome as ever,’ replied Nicholas, glancing at the late Miss Petowker.
‘Why, there’s air about her, sir,’ whispered the collector, ‘that I never saw in anybody. Look at her now she moves to put the kettle on. There! Isn’t it fascination, sir?’