‘And what of her?’ asked Toole, screwing himself up as close as he could to the flower-pots.

‘Come up and I’ll tell you,’ and she shut down the window and beckoned him slily, and up came Toole all alive.

Miss Magnolia told her story in her usual animated way, sometimes dropping her voice to a whisper, and taking Toole by the collar, sometimes rising to a rollicking roar of laughter, while the little doctor stood by, his hands in his breeches’ pockets, making a pleasant jingle with his loose change there, with open mouth and staring eyes, and a sort of breathless grin all over his ruddy face.  Then came another story, and more chuckling.

’And what about that lanky long may-pole, Gerty Chattesworth, the witch?—­not that anyone cares tuppence if she rode on a broom to sweep the cobwebs off the moon, only a body may as well know, you know,’ said Miss Mag, preparing to listen.

’Why, by Jupiter! they say—­but d’ye mind, I don’t know, and faith I don’t believe it—­but they do say she’s going to be married to—­who do you think now?’ answered Toole.

‘Old Colonel Bligh, of the Magazine, or Dr. Walsingham, may be,’ cried Mag, with a burst of laughter; ’no young fellow would be plagued with her, I’m certain.’

’Well, ha, ha! you are a conjuror, Miss Mag, to be sure.  He’s not young—­you’re right there—­but then, he’s rich, he is, by Jove! there’s no end of his—­well, what do you say now to Mr. Dangerfield?’

‘Dangerfield!  Well’ (after a little pause), ’he’s ugly enough and old enough too, for the matter of that; but he’s as rich as a pork-pie; and if he’s worth half what they say, you may take my word for it, when he goes to church it won’t be to marry the steeple.’

And she laughed again scornfully and added—­

’’Twas plain enough from the first, the whole family laid themselves out to catch the old quiz and his money.  Let the Chattesworths alone for scheming, with all their grand airs.  Much I mind them!  Why, the old sinner was not an hour in the town when he was asked over the way to Belmont, and Miss dressed out there like a puppet, to simper and flatter the rich old land agent, and butter him up—­my Lord Castlemallard’s bailiff—­if you please, ha, ha, ha! and the Duchess of Belmont, that ballyrags every one round her, like a tipsy old soldier, as civil as six, my dear Sir, with her “Oh, Mr. Dangerfield, this,” and her “Dear Mr. Dangerfield, that,” and all to marry that long, sly hussy to a creature old enough to be her grandfather, though she’s no chicken neither.  Faugh! filthy!’ and Miss Magnolia went through an elegant pantomime of spitting over her shoulder into the grate.

Toole thought there was but one old fellow of his acquaintance who might be creditably married by a girl young enough to be his granddaughter, and that was honest Arthur Slowe; and he was going to insinuate a joke of the sort; but perceiving that his sly preparatory glance was not pleasantly responded to, and that the stalworth nymph was quite in earnest, he went off to another topic.