“From Joseph Portlock’s wife, I’ll be bound,” said Fullerton. “She’s been at your place three times lately.”
“I’m not going to mention any names,” said Tomlinson, with a sly, smooth, fat smile, “but I think I may venture to say that there’ll be a wedding somewhere within six months, and that those who are married will live in Kensington.”
“Ay, parson knows how to play his cards,” said Warton. “I suppose the eldest girl will marry that stout gentleman, Perry-Morton. Parson manages things well. Fancy bagging Lord Artingale for a son-in-law. Why, all Gatley belongs to him, and he’s an uncommonly nice fellow too.”
“Yes, his lordship’s all very well; but as to young Cyril and Miss Portlock, mark my words, no good’ll come of it,” said Fullerton, emphatically. “Mark my words: no good’ll come of it.”
“I should be sorry if it did not turn out well, and so would my son be, I’m sure,” said the old tanner.
“Why?” said Fullerton.
“Because Sage Portlock is a nice, superior sort of girl,” said the old man, “and it is always grievous to see those you like come in for trouble.”
“So it is,” said Fullerton, “but trouble will come. Here’s two clergyman’s sons, who ought to be the very model of what young men should be, and has any one of you a good word to say for them?”
“Well, for my part,” said Smithson, “a man as can’t wear a honestly well-cut pair of trousers, made by a respectable tradesman, but must send to London for everything, can’t have much balance in his nature.”
“Quite right,” said Warton. “Why, when old Mallow set up the carriage, young Cyril—no, it was Frank—must go up to London to buy the harness, and it had to come to me for repairs in less than a month.”