“Oh, laws! there’s Bill,” said she, and then she fainted. The gentleman with the mottled face was indeed no other than Mr. Brisket, the purveyor of meat, for whose arms Mrs. McCockerell had destined the charms of her younger daughter. Conduct baser than that of Mrs. Jones on this occasion is not perhaps recorded in history. She was no friend of Brisket’s. She had it not at heart to forward her mother’s views. At this period of their lives she and her mother never met. But she had learned her sister’s secret, and having it in her power to crush her sister’s happiness, had availed herself of the opportunity. “There he is,” said she, quite aloud, so that the whole room should hear. “He’s a bill-sticker!” and she pointed the finger of scorn at her sister’s lover. “I’m one who have always earned my own living,” said Robinson, “and never had occasion to hang on to any one.” This he said knowing that Jones’s lodgings were paid for by Mr. Brown. Hereupon Mr. Brisket walked across the room, and as he walked there was a cloud of anger on his brow. “Perhaps, young man,” he said,—and as he spoke he touched Robinson on the shoulder,—“perhaps, young man, you wouldn’t mind having a few words with me outside the door.” “Sir,” said the other with some solemnity, “I am not aware that I have the honour of your acquaintance.” “I’m William Brisket, butcher,” said he; “and if you don’t come out when I asks you, by jingo, I’ll carry you.” The lady had fainted. The crowd of dancers was standing round with inquiring faces. That female spectre repeated the odious words, still pointing at him with her finger, “He’s a bill-sticker!” Brisket was full fourteen stone, whereas Robinson might perhaps be ten. What was Robinson to do? “Are you going to walk out, or am I going to carry you?” said the Hercules of the slaughter-house. “I will do anything,” said Robinson, “to relieve a lady’s embarrassment.” They walked out on to the landing-place, whither not a few of the gentlemen and some of the ladies followed them. “I say, young man,” said Brisket, “do you know who that young woman is?” “I certainly have the honour of her acquaintance,” said Robinson. “But perhaps you haven’t the honour of knowing that she’s my wife,—as is to be. Now you know it.” And then the coarse monster eyed him from head to foot. “Now you may go home to your mother,” said he. “But don’t tell her anything of it, because it’s a secret.” He was fifteen stone at least, and Robinson was hardly ten. Oh, how vile is the mastery which matter still has over mind in many of the concerns of life! How can a man withstand the assault of a bull? What was Robinson to do? He walked downstairs into the street, leaving Maryanne behind with the butcher. Some days after this he contrived a meeting with his love, and he then learned the history of that engagement. “She hated Brisket,” she said. “He was odious to her. He was always greasy and smelt of meat;—but he had a respectable business.”