‘And candles,’ replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.
‘Coals, candles, and house-rent free,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!’
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble’s arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.
‘Such porochial perfection!’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. ‘You know that Mr. Stout is worse to-night, my fascinator?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.
‘He can’t live a week, the doctor says,’ pursued Mr. Bumble. ‘He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!’
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
‘The little word?’ said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. ‘The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?’
‘Ye—ye—yes!’ sighed out the matron.
‘One more,’ pursued the beadle; ‘compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?’