“Mrs. Gwynne! Miss Gwynne! mother and daughter--Captain Gwynne, the father, on the recruiting staff in the Isle of Skye, or, if you like it better, with his regiment at St. John's. Mrs. G------, a Miss Rickaby, one of the Rickabys of Pwhlmdlwmm, North Wales--ancient family--small estate--all spent--obliged to live retired--till--till--no matter what--a son comes of age--to sign something--or anything that way--” “This is all fiddle-faddle, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fum, with an expression that seemed to say, “Take care how you trifle with me.” “To be sure it is,” rejoined Paul; “all lies, every word of it. What do you say, then, if we have her the Widow Gwynne--husband shot at Bergen-op-Zoom--” “I say, Mr. Dempsey, that if you wish me to keep your secret before the other boarders--” “The best way is never to tell it to you--eh, Mrs. Fum? Well, come, I will be open. Name, Gwynne--place of abode unknown--family ditto--means supposed to be ample--daughter charming--so very much so, indeed, that if Paul Dempsey were only what he ought--the Dempsey of Dempsey's Grove--” “Oh, is that it?” said Mrs. Fumbally, endeavoring to smile,-“is that it?” “That's it,” rejoined Paul, as he drew up his shirt-collar, and adjusted his cravat. “Isn't she very young, Mr. Dempsey?” said Mrs. Fum, slyly. “Twenty, or thereabouts, I take it,” said Paul, carelessly,--“quite suitable as regards age.” “I never thought you 'd marry, Mr. Dempsey,” said Mrs. Fum, with a languishing look, that contrasted strangely with the habitually shrewish expression of the “Pauther's” face. “Can't help it, Mrs. Fum. The last of the Romans! No more Dempseys when I 'm gone, if I don't. Elder branch all dropped off,--last twig of the younger myself.” “Ah! these are considerations, indeed!” sighed the lady. “But don't you think that a person more like yourself in taste--more similar in opinion of the world? She looks proud, Mr. Dempsey; I should say, overbearingly proud.” “Rather proud myself, if that's all,” said Dempsey, drawing himself up, and protruding his chin with a most comic imitation of dignity. “Only becomingly so, Mr. Dempsey,--a proper sense of self-respect, a due feeling for your future position in life,--I never saw more than that, I must say. Now, I could n't help remarking the way that young lady threw herself into the chair, and the glance she gave at the room. It was number eight, Mr. Dempsey, with the chintz furniture, and the looking-glass over the chimney! Well, really you 'd say, it was poor Leonard's room, with the settee bed in the corner,--the look she gave it!” “Indeed!” exclaimed Dempsey, who really felt horrified at this undervaluing judgment of what every boarder regarded as the very sanctum of the Fumbally Temple.