"A clergyman," continued Mrs. Gambit, taking no manner of notice of these interruptions, "may not always, no more than a builder's foreman, choose where he would live. And if his parish is the Fleet Market, among the cabbages, as I suppose the Doctor's is, or about the Fleet Prison, among the miserable debtors, as I suppose it may be, why he must fain live here with the cabbage-stalks beneath his nose, and make the best of it." "Your ladyship," the messenger went on, addressing himself to me, "will shortly, no doubt, be made happy. The gentleman, however, hath not yet come. Pray step within, ladies." "You see, Miss Kitty," said Mrs. Gambit, pointing to the window, with a disdainful look at this impertinent fellow, "this is certainly the house. So far, therefore, we are safe." In the window there hung a card, on which was written in large characters, so that all might read: +-------------------------------------+ | REVEREND GREGORY SHOVEL, | | DOCTOR OF DIVINITY, | | FORMERLY OF CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY. | +-------------------------------------+ Now, without any reason, I immediately connected this announcement with those curious advertisements I had seen in the tavern windows. And yet, what could my uncle have to do with marrying? And what did the man mean by his long rigmarole and nonsense about the Reverend This and the Reverend That? However, Mrs. Gambit led the way, and I followed. The messenger pushed a door open, and we found ourselves in a low room lit by the broad window with the diamond panes, of which I have spoken. The air in the room was close, and smelt of tobacco and rum: the floor was sanded: the wainscoting of the walls was broken in places; walls, floors, and ceiling were all alike unwashed and dirty: the only furniture was a table, half-a-dozen cushions or hassocks, and one great chair with arms and back of carved wood. On the table was a large volume. It was the Prayer-book of the Established Church of England and Ireland, and it was lying open, I could plainly see, at the Marriage Service. At the head of the table, a reflection of the sunlight from the window falling full upon his face, sat a man of middle age, about fifty-five years or so, who rose when we came in, and bowed with great gravity. Could this be my uncle?