"Have you heard the news, Mr. Rushmere?" said Mrs. Barford, addressing the old gentleman, who had greatly failed since his wife's death, and was composing himself for an afternoon nap in the great chair.
"What news?" quoth he, "there's very little news that can interest me now."
"Your old favourite, Dorothy Chance, is going to be married."
"Ay, that's summat, though," and he leaned eagerly forward, and quite wide awake. "She'll make an excellent wife whoever has the luck to get a'. Who's the man?"
"No less a person than the Vicar, young Mr. Fitzmorris. There's a chance for her."
"What our Dolly marry the parson!" and he rubbed his hands in great glee. "Good for her."
"I beg, Mr. Rushmere, that you will not believe a word of it," cried Miss Watling. "A very likely thing indeed, for a man of his condition to marry the child of some miserable vagabond. It's a story all got up, between Dorothy and Mrs. Martin, to throw discredit on Mr. Fitzmorris, who everybody knows, is not a marrying man."
"No discredit, I should think, to him or to any one," said Gilbert, turning with a flushed face from the window, where he was standing, "if marrying a beautiful virtuous woman can be a disgrace."
"That's right, Gilbert, speak up for your old love," sneered Nancy, unrestrained in venting her spleen by the lowering brow of Gilbert.