was a clever woman, but they did not believe her to be a lady.  Matthew had said a few words to the cook as to a public-house at Stevenage.  She had told him not to be an old fool, and that he would lose his money, but she had thought of the public-house.  There had been a mutinous feeling.  Matthew helped his master out of the carriage, and then came a revulsion.  That “froth of a beer-barrel,” as Matthew had dared to call her, had absolutely refused his master.

Mr. Prosper went into the house very meditative, and sad at heart.  It was a matter almost of regret to him that it had not been as Matthew supposed.  But he was caught and bound, and must make the best of it.  He thought of all the particulars of her proposed mode of living, and recapitulated them to himself.  A pair of ponies, her own maid, champagne, the fish-monger’s bill, and Miss Tickle.  Miss Puffle would certainly not have required such expensive luxuries.  Champagne and the fish would require company for their final consumption.

The ponies assumed a tone of being quite opposed to that which he had contemplated.  He questioned with himself whether he would like Miss Tickle as a perpetual inmate.  He had, in sheer civility, expressed a liking for Miss Tickle, but what need could there be to a married woman of a Miss Tickle?  And then he thought of the education of the five or six children which she had almost promised him!  He had suggested to himself simply an heir,—­just one heir,—­so that the nefarious Harry might be cut out.  He already saw that he would not be enriched to the extent of a shilling by the lady’s income.  Then there would be all the trouble and the disgrace of a separate purse.  He felt that there would be disgrace in having the fish and champagne, which were consumed in his own house,—­paid for by his wife without reference to him.  What if the lady had a partiality for champagne?  He knew nothing about it, and would know nothing about it, except when he saw it in her heightened color.  Despatched crabs for supper!  He always went to bed at ten, and had a tumbler of barley-water brought to him,—­a glass of barley-water with just a squeeze of lemon-juice.

He saw ruin before him.  No doubt she was a good manager, but she would be a good manager for herself.  Would it not be better for him to stand the action for breach of promise, and betake himself to Miss Puffle?  But Miss Puffle was fifty, and there could be no doubt that the lady ought to be younger than the gentleman.  He was much distressed in mind.  If he broke off with Miss Thoroughbung, ought he to do so at once, before she had had time to put the matter into the hands of the lawyer?  And on what plea should he do it?  Before he went to bed that night he did draw out a portion of a letter, which, however, was never sent: