‘You may laugh, Mrs. Fiander,’ he said, recovering himself after an instant, ‘but people are not blind and deaf; and, though they may be fooled to a certain extent by a lady, gentlemen of my profession find it easy to put two and two together, ma’am. When a lady tells you she is always engaged on a Sunday, and shuts the door in the face of a person who comes to make civil inquiries, one does n’t need to be extra clever to guess that there must be some reason for it. And when the reason turns out to be another gentleman, and when that gentleman takes upon himself to assault another gentleman as was also desirous of paying his respects in the same quarter, that, Mrs. Fiander, is what one may term _primâ-facie_ evidence!’ Whether the display of Mr. Cross’s learning had a sobering effect on Mrs. Fiander, or whether she was suddenly struck by some serious thought, it is certain that she ceased laughing at this juncture, and remained pensive even after the rejected suitor had departed. Mr. Wilson was harder to get rid of. He was so confident in the justice of his claim, so pertinacious in reminding Rosalie of her obligations towards him with regard to the sales of the pigs—which piece of business he perseveringly alluded to as ‘a delicate matter’—so persuaded, moreover, of his own superiority to any of her other lovers, that she finally lost patience and petulantly declared that if there were not another man in the world she would not consent to marry him. The auctioneer grew purple in the face, and suddenly changed his note:— ‘If there was n’t another man in the world!’ he repeated sneeringly. ‘Then there is another man? Ha! it is n’t very hard to guess who! Well, tastes differ. If you like such a rough, common old chap better than a gentleman doing a large and honourable business, I make you a present of him, Mrs. Fiander, smock-frock and all! Ha, ha, he’ll soon have the pigs back again when he’s master here, and all my labour and loss of time will have been thrown away. Not that I grudge the sacrifice,’ cried Mr. Wilson in a melting tone. ‘No, far be it from me to grudge the sacrifice. The ladies have always found an easy prey in me; and when I think of the far greater sacrifice which a young and lovely woman is prepared to make upon the altar of matrimony—a sacrifice which she will repent too late—I am rejooced to silence.’ Here Mr. Wilson thumped his breast and cast a last languishing look at the young widow, who appeared, however, to be absorbed in her own reflections. He talked on in spite of his last assertion until they reached Rosalie’s door, where, waking as if from a dream, she extended her hand to him. ‘Good-bye,’ she said. ‘There is no use in talking about it any more, Mr. Wilson; my mind is made up.’ The auctioneer extended his hand dramatically in the direction of the empty pigsties. ‘Well, Mrs. Fiander,’ he cried, ‘if the Inspector of Nuisances visits your premises you will only have yourself to thank.’