“My footman!—Nat!” exclaimed Miss Hodges, bursting out a laughing, “my Angelina took you for my footman.”
“Good heavens! what is he?” said Angelina, in a low voice.
“Verily,” said Nat Gazabo, with a sort of bashful simple laugh, “verily, I am the humblest of her servants.”
“And does my Angelina—spare my delicacy,” said Miss Hodges—“does my Angelina not remember, in any of my long letters, the name of—Orlando!—There he stands.”
“Orlando!—Is this gentleman your Orlando, of whom I have heard so much?”
“He! he! he!” simpered Nat. “I am Orlando, of whom you have heard so much; and she—(pointing to Miss Hodges)—she is, to-morrow morning, God willing, to be Mistress Hodges Gazabo.”
“Mrs. Hodges Gazabo, my Araminta!” said Angelina, with astonishment, which she could not suppress.
“Yes, my Angelina: so end ‘The Sorrows of Araminta’—Another cup?—do I make the tea too sweet?” said Miss Hodges, whilst Nat handed the bread and butter to the ladies officiously.
“The man looks like a fool,” thought Miss Warwick.
“Set down the bread and butter, and be quiet, Nat—Then, as soon as the wedding is over, we fly, my Angelina, to our charming cottage in Wales:—there may we bid defiance to the storms of fate—