‘Say he dreamt it,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly. A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage. ‘Pooh, pooh!--nothing more easy--blackguard boy--lovely woman--fat boy horsewhipped--you believed--end of the matter--all comfortable.’ Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill- timed discovery was delightful to the spinster’s feelings, or whether the hearing herself described as a ‘lovely woman’ softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle. That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt’s face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and suddenly withdrew them. ‘You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,’ said the lady, in a plaintive voice. ‘May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?’ ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start--‘removal! remove my unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing--who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the niece of the creature who--but no; he is my friend; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle--farewell!’ At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned towards the door. ‘Stay, Mr. Jingle!’ said the spinster aunt emphatically. ‘You have made an allusion to Mr. Tupman--explain it.’ ‘Never!’ exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical) air. ‘Never!’ and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down. ‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the aunt, ‘I entreat--I implore you, if there is any dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.’ ‘Can I,’ said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt’s face--‘can I see--lovely creature--sacrificed at the shrine--heartless avarice!’ He appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then said in a low voice-- ‘Tupman only wants your money.’ ‘The wretch!’ exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr. Jingle’s doubts were resolved. She _had_ money.) ‘More than that,’ said Jingle--‘loves another.’ ‘Another!’ ejaculated the spinster. ‘Who?’ Short girl--black eyes--niece Emily.’ There was a pause. Now, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said-- ‘It can’t be. I won’t believe it.’ ‘Watch ‘em,’ said Jingle. ‘I will,’ said the aunt. ‘Watch his looks.’ ‘I will.’ ‘His whispers.’ ‘I will.’