‘Will you permit me?’ said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching the enchanting Rachael’s wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with the other. ‘Will you permit me?’ ‘Oh, sir!’ Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her fear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she should have required support again. ‘Do you think my dear nieces pretty?’ whispered their affectionate aunt to Mr. Tupman. ‘I should, if their aunt wasn’t here,’ replied the ready Pickwickian, with a passionate glance. ‘Oh, you naughty man--but really, if their complexions were a little better, don’t you think they would be nice-looking girls--by candlelight?’ ‘Yes; I think they would,’ said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference. ‘Oh, you quiz--I know what you were going to say.’ ‘What?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to say anything at all. ‘You were going to say that Isabel stoops--I know you were--you men are such observers. Well, so she does; it can’t be denied; and, certainly, if there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly it is stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she’ll be quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz!’ Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a rate: so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously. ‘What a sarcastic smile,’ said the admiring Rachael; ‘I declare I’m quite afraid of you.’ ‘Afraid of me!’ ‘Oh, you can’t disguise anything from me--I know what that smile means very well.’ ‘What?’ said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself. ‘You mean,’ said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower--‘you mean, that you don’t think Isabella’s stooping is as bad as Emily’s boldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes--I’m sure I cry about it for hours together--my dear brother is _so_ good, and so unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I’m quite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner--I hope it may be--’ (Here the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly). ‘I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,’ whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister--‘I’m quite certain of it--she looks so malicious.’ ‘Is she?’ replied Isabella.--‘Hem! aunt, dear!’ ‘Yes, my dear love!’ ‘I’m _so_ afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt--have a silk handkerchief to tie round your dear old head--you really should take care of yourself-- consider your age!’ However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe. ‘Damn that boy,’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s gone to sleep again.’