"Hush! hush! There has been a man here; so ugly—so—so—squintified, if I may say so, that between you and me and the post, my dear, it's enough to frighten any one to look at him, it is indeed.—But as for the silver-grey satin, don't stint the quality for a sixpence or so."
"The wretch!"
"And take care to have plenty of rich trimming to it."
"The monster!"
"And have something pretty to match it, so that when you go to St. Dunstan's next Sunday, all the folks will ask what fine lady from court has come into the city out of curiosity to see the old church."
"Oh, Jackey."
"That's what I call," muttered Mr. Wheeler, "pouring oil upon the troubled waters." He then spoke aloud, saying—"Now, my dear, it is your judgment and advice I want. What shall we do in this case? for you see—first of all, the new lodger denies knowing a soul, and then, in half an hour, an old acquaintance calls upon him here."
The silver-grey satin—the flattering allusion to the probable opinion of the people in St. Dunstan's Church on the next Sunday—the obscure allusion to a something else to match it, and the appeal to her judgment, all had the effect desired upon Mrs. Wheeler, who, dropping entirely the hectoring tone, fell into her husband's views, and began calmly and dispassionately, without abuse or crimination, to discuss the merits, or rather the probable demerits, of the new lodger.
"I tell you, my dear, my opinion," said the lady. "As for stopping in the house and not knowing who and what he is, I won't."
"Certainly not, my love."