"The cruelest trump, Captain Higginbotham!" said he sternly, and stalked by—majestic.
The night was so fine that the Parson and his wife, as they walked home, made a little detour through the shrubbery.
Mrs. Dale.—"I think I have done a good piece of work to-night."
Parson, rousing himself from a reverie.—"Have you, Carry?—it will be a very pretty handkerchief."
Mrs. Dale.—"Handkerchief—nonsense, dear. Don't you think it would be a very happy thing for both, if Jemima and Signor Riccabocca could be brought together?"
Parson.—"Brought together!"
Mrs. Dale.—"You do snap one up so, my dear—I mean if I could make a match of it."
Parson.—"I think Riccabocca is a match already, not only for Jemima, but yourself into the bargain."
Mrs. Dale, smiling loftily.—"Well, we shall see. Was not Jemima's fortune about £4000?"
Parson dreamily, for he is relapsing fast into his interrupted reverie: "Ay—ay—I daresay."