“Coals, candles, and house-rent free,” said Mr. Bumble. “Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a angel you are!”
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sunk 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. Slout 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 joining of hearts and housekeeping!”
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?”
Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak, and twice failed. At length, summoning up courage, she threw her arms round Mr. Bumble’s neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was “a irresistible duck.”