‘Well,’ said Mr. Jawleyford, seating himself on the high wire fender immediately below a marble bust of himself on the mantelpiece; ’I think he’ll do.’

‘Oh, no doubt,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford, who never saw any difficulty in the way of a match; ‘I should say he is a very nice young man,’ continued she.

‘Rather brusque in his manner, perhaps,’ observed Jawleyford, who was quite the ‘lady’ himself.  ‘I wonder what he was?’ added he, fingering away at his whiskers.

‘He’s rich, I’ve no doubt,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford.

‘What makes you think so?’ asked her loving spouse.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford; ’somehow I feel certain he is—­but I can’t tell why—­all fox-hunters are.’

‘I don’t know that,’ replied Jawleyford, who knew some very poor ones.  ’I should like to know what he has,’ continued Jawleyford musingly, looking up at the deeply corniced ceiling as if he were calculating the chances among the filagree ornaments of the centre.

‘A hundred thousand, perhaps,’ suggested Mrs. Jawleyford, who only knew two sums—­fifty and a hundred thousand.

‘That’s a vast of money,’ replied Jawleyford, with a slight shake of the head.

‘Fifty at least, then,’ suggested Mrs. Jawleyford, coming down half-way at once.

‘Well, if he has that, he’ll do,’ rejoined Jawleyford, who also had come down considerably in his expectations since the vision of his railway days, at whose bright light he had burnt his fingers.

’He was said to have an immense fortune—­I forget how much—­at Laverick Wells,’ observed Mrs. Jawleyford.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Jawleyford, adding, ’I suppose either of the girls will be glad enough to take him?’

‘Trust them for that,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford, with a knowing smile and nod of the head:  ‘trust them for that,’ repeated she.  ’Though Amelia does turn up her nose and pretend to be fine, rely upon it she only wants to be sure that he’s worth having.’

‘Emily seems ready enough, at all events,’ observed Jawleyford.

‘She’ll never get the chance,’ observed Mrs. Jawleyford.  ’Amelia is a very prudent girl, and won’t commit herself, but she knows how to manage the men.’

‘Well, then,’ said Jawleyford, with a hearty yawn, ’I suppose we may as well go to bed.’

So saying, he took his candle and retired.

CHAPTER XIX

THE WET DAY

When the dirty slip-shod housemaid came in the morning with her blacksmith’s-looking tool-box to light Mr. Sponge’s fire, a riotous winter’s day was in the full swing of its gloomy, deluging power.  The wind howled, and roared, and whistled, and shrieked, playing a sort of aeolian harp amongst the towers, pinnacles, and irregular castleisations of the house; while the old casements rattled and shook, as though some one were trying to knock them in.