Thomas waved his hand comprehendingly.
"Just so, just so, Matthew," said he. "Of course, we were too young to think about such things until—until recently. A man shouldn't think of them things until he's come to an age of discretion."
Matthew took a moody sip of the contents of his glass.
"Was you thinking of that state of life yourself, Thomas?" he inquired.
Thomas grew in grandeur and importance until he looked like a large frog.
"I was about to make the announcement, Matthew," he said, "the important announcement that I am about to lead to the altar Mrs. Walkinshaw——"
"What, her of the Dusty Miller!" exclaimed Matthew, naming a well-known hostelry in the market-town.
"Mrs. Walkinshaw—Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be—certainly is proprietor of that house, Matthew," replied Thomas. "Yes, she is!"
"Well—well!" said Matthew. "Ah, just so." He glanced at his brother with the sly Pogmore expression. "I should think she's got a pretty warmly-lined purse, eh, Thomas?—he was a well-to-do man, was her first husband."
"I have no doubt Mrs. Thomas Pogmore as will be can bring a nice little fortune with her, Matthew," said the prospective bridegroom, with great complacency, "a ve-ry nice little fortune. There'll be what the late Mr. Walkinshaw left, and what she's saved, and there'll be the goodwill of the business, which should make a pretty penny."