For this misguided man Fayette Overtop felt a real pity.  He yearned to expostulate with him gently, as a friend.  Taking Mr. Slapman’s hand in his own, he would have said: 

“Your wife is a precious gift to the world.  Seek not to check the outflow of her ardent nature.  Thank Heaven that you are the custodian of such a treasure, not to be selfishly monopolized by yourself, but held in trust for the benefit of society.”

Overtop’s meditations, on this particular occasion, pertained to the style of the costume which would most become him as the lover of Mrs. Slapman, in an original play to be enacted at her house toward the close of the week.  The question was chiefly of knee breeches.  Overtop was mentally debating whether he ought not, in justice to his thin legs, to substitute an ampler style of integuments.

Matthew Maltboy had also been invited to this soiree dramatique (as Mrs. Slapman’s large pasteboards expressed it).  A fat man was a necessity of the play.  Mrs. Slapman was not cordial to Matthew, regarding him as an excessively commonplace person, and had invited him to her social gatherings out of courtesy to Overtop; but her artist eye saw in him a fitness for the fat man.  Matthew was delighted with the implied compliment to those talents for the stage which every man supposes himself to possess in some degree, and cheerfully undertook the part.

The proprieties of costume did not in the least perplex Mr. Maltboy, as he lay on the sofa digesting his dinner, and puffing out smoke rings by the dozen.  His thoughts were mildly fixed on that delightful Miss Whedell.  Five times he had been graciously permitted to visit the lady at her house, and to discover a score of new charms at each interview.  A large experience in love making assured him that the object of his idolatry was not wholly indifferent to him.  The paternal Whedell had hobbies.  Matthew had studied them, like a skilful strategist, catered to them, and felt quite sure that he had that revered individual on his side.  But, in the midst of these pleasant imaginings, there rose the dark and baleful image of Chiffield!

Marcus Wilkeson was also pondering—­pleasantly, if one might judge from the contented smile upon his lips.  The subject of his thoughts was one which, for reasons that seemed good to him, he still kept secret from his fellow bachelors.  He had freely told them of his singular adventure at the house of the old gentleman opposite; but not a word of the inventor and his daughter, and of the private school at Miss Pillbody’s.  Not even the minute and sometimes tedious accounts which Overtop and Maltboy gave of their private thoughts and experiences, could induce Marcus to reciprocate their confidence.  For the first time in his life he wore a mask before his companions, and prevaricated, and became, on a small scale, a humbug.