Tottle, that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by the servant.'
'Stay,--stay,' cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful distance from the lady; 'when shall we meet again?'
'Oh! Mr. Tottle,' replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, 'when we are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;' and she left the room.
Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of 'Five hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by her last will and testament,' was somehow or other the foremost. He had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.
'May I come in?' said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.
'You may,' replied Watkins.
'Well, have you done it?' anxiously inquired Gabriel.
'Have I done it!' said Watkins Tottle. 'Hush--I'm going to the clergyman.'
'No!' said Parsons. 'How well you have managed it!'
'Where does Timson live?' inquired Watkins.
'At his uncle's,' replied Gabriel, 'just round the lane. He's waiting for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or three months. But how well you have done it--I didn't think you could have carried it off so!'
Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded like a fancy cocked-hat.
'Miss Lillerton's compliments,' said Martha, as she delivered it into Tottle's hands, and vanished.
'Do you observe the delicacy?' said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 'COMPLIMENTS, not LOVE, by the servant, eh?'
Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn't exactly know what reply to make, so he poked the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle.
'Come,' said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this practical jest, had subsided, 'we'll be off at once--let's lose no time.'
'Capital!' echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.
'Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?' inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson's uncle's man.
'Mr. Charles IS at home,' replied the man, stammering; 'but he desired me to say he couldn't be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.'
'_I_ am not a parishioner,' replied Watkins.
'Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?' inquired Parsons, thrusting himself forward.
'No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he's not exactly writing a sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.'
'Say I'm here,' replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; 'Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.'
They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.
'How do you do, sir?' said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.
'How do YOU do, sir?' replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very likely was.
'I beg to deliver this note to you,' said Watkins Tottle, producing the cocked-hat.
'From Miss Lillerton!' said Timson, suddenly changing colour. 'Pray sit down.'
Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.
Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons. 'May I ask,' he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, 'whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your visit?'
'Our friend is in MY confidence,' replied Watkins, with considerable importance.