“Will you permit me,” said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching the enchanting Rachael’s wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with the other. “Will you permit me?”
“Oh, sir!” Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her fear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she would have required support again.
“Do you think my dear nieces pretty?” whispered their affectionate aunt to Mr. Tupman.
“I should if their aunt wasn’t here,” replied the ready Pickwickian, with a passionate glance.
“Oh, you naughty man—but really, if their complexions were a little better, don’t you think they would be nice-looking girls—by candle-light?”
“Yes; I think they would,” said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.
“Oh, you quiz—I know what you were going to say.”
“What?” inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to say anything at all.
“You were going to say that Isabel stoops—I know you were—you men are such observers. Well, so she does; it can’t be denied; and, certainly, if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly, it is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she’ll be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz.”
Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a rate, so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.