“And therefore I say it is not quite honorable in Beacon to drive her out in such a marked manner.  And I may as well say at once that I think you had better settle the thing immediately.  The world understands it already, so it will be a mere private understanding among ourselves, much more agreeable for all parties.  Perhaps this evening even—­hey, Alfred?”

Mrs. Dinks adjusted herself upon the sofa in a sort of final manner, as if the affair were now satisfactorily arranged.

“It’s no use talking that way, mother; it’s all done.”

Mrs. Dinks appeared sleepy no longer.  She bounced like an India-rubber ball.  Even the cap-ribbons were left to shift for themselves.  She turned and clasped Alfred in her arms.

“My blessed son!”

Then followed a moment of silent rapture, during which she moistened his shirt-collar with maternal tears.

“Alfred,” whispered she, “are you really engaged?”

“Yes’m.”

She squeezed him as if he were a bag of the million dollars of which she felt herself to be henceforth mistress.

“You dear, good boy!  Then you are sly after all!”

“Yes’m, I’m afraid I am,” rejoined Alfred very uncomfortably, and with an extremely ridiculous and nervous impression that his mother was congratulating him upon something she knew nothing about.

“Dear, dear, DEAR boy!” said Mrs. Dinks, with a crescendo affection and triumph.  While she was yet embracing him, his father, the unemployed statesman, the Honorable Budlong Dinks, entered.

To the infinite surprise of that gentleman, his wife rose, came to him, put her arm affectionately in his, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, whispered exultingly, and not very softly,

“It’s done without the wagon.  Our dear boy has justified our fondest hopes, Budlong.”

The statesman slipped his shoulder from under her head.  If there were one thing of which he was profoundly persuaded it was that a really great man—­a man to whom important public functions may be properly intrusted—­must, under no circumstances, be wheedled by his wife.  He must gently, but firmly, teach her her proper sphere.  She must not attempt to bribe that judgment to which the country naturally looks in moments of difficulty.

Having restored his wife to an upright position, the honorable gentleman looked upon her with distinguished consideration; and, playing with the seals that hung at the end of his watch-ribbon, asked her, with the most protective kindness in the world, what she was talking about.

She laid her cap-ribbons properly upon her shoulder, smoothed her dress, and began to fan herself in a kind of complacent triumph, as she answered,

“Alfred is engaged as we wished.”

The honorable gentleman beamed approval with as much cordiality as statesmen who are also fathers of private families, as well as of the public, ought to indulge toward their children.  Shaking the hand of his son as if his shoulder wanted oiling, he said,