She had been so often angled for, that she looked rather closely at the bait before she rose to it, and hinted that whilst friendship urged her to say "Yes," prudence advised her to say "No."
She knew so little of Mr. Asherill's antecedents, she was so ignorant even of the names of any of his friends, that—
"The name of Samuel Witney is familiar to you, doubtless," interrupted Mr. Asherill.
Yes, the widow knew it well. He was a shining light in his own particular denomination, and she had read his speeches, and listened to his lectures with delight and instruction.
"I suppose then," suggested Mr. Asherill, "that if he writes to you saying he has known me for twenty years, believes me incapable of a mean action, and can vouch for my perfect respectability, I may hope—"
What he hoped was not exactly conveyed in words, but it resulted in the widow saying,
"Oh! Mr. Asherill," and setting her cap, which had suddenly become disarranged, straight.
I do not wish to enlarge upon this theme, however; the loves of elderly couples cannot be made attractive by any sort of writing yet discovered, and the billing and cooing of a pair of old doves is music which no art can render sweet in the ear of the listener.
Immediately on Mr. Asherill's return to town, he informed Mr. Witney of his wishes, as well as of the great change he had experienced, thus killing, as was his wont, two birds with one stone.
He secured a second wife with a handsome income, every penny of which he insisted should be settled on herself; and he cemented the friendship, so called, which had after City fashion subsisted between himself and Mr. Witney.