Mrs. Dibble also at the same time arranged to entertain her own particular friends at home on these evenings, and so balanced off her generosity to poor Dibble, her husband. Thomas Dibble soon became a bore to Paul Somerton. So soon as the young man began to know his way about town, so soon did he become tired of Dibble, and ashamed of him, too; for Paul was not altogether a stranger to the manners and feelings of a gentleman, and was a good-looking fellow withal; whilst poor Dibble was nothing more than a respectable porter at any time. Besides, Dibble was perpetually praising Mrs. Dibble, and would stop to buy hot potatoes in the street, and “penn’orths” of pudding; so Paul decided to shake him off, but his determination was changed by a letter from his sister. “What should Amy want to know all about Mr. Richard for?” said Paul, reading a letter in bed, one Sunday morning, some weeks after his residence in London. “And who is Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs; and what the deuce business is it of hers if young Hammerton is often with them?” he continued, staring up from the letter to the ceiling. “Please, sir, it’s nine o’clock. Mrs. Dibble said I were to tell you,” said a voice through the keyhole. “All right,” said Paul; “and hang Mrs. Dibble.” “Were I to say so, please?” asked the voice. “No, confound you,” said Paul; “but tell Dibble I shall go for a walk with him after chapel.” It was the custom of Thomas Dibble to take what he called “a little constitutional” after chapel, and before dinner--just half-an-hour’s stroll, whilst Mrs. Dibble changed her chapel-going satin, and dished up the dinner. It was a rare thing for Mr. Paul Somerton to volunteer to accompany Mr. Dibble; but he did so on the Sunday in question, and, as they walked by the Thames, watching the steamers pass and repass with their loads of noisy pleasure-seekers, Paul asked Dibble a variety of puzzling questions about Mr. Richard Tallant, and his friend, Shuffleton Gibbs. “Ise no spy, Mr. Somerton, and Ise not an owl, or a dormouse,” said Mr. Dibble, looking as knowing as he could at Paul. “Certainly not, Dib,” said Paul; “certainly not; you know a thing or two.” “Well, I dur say, and I knows nothing about the things you speaks of.” “What, don’t you know who Mr. Gibbs is, and how he lives, and why he is a friend of the son’s and not of the father’s?” asked Paul. “It bain’t my business to know,” said Mr. Dibble. Paul Somerton pumped old Dibble all the way home, but to little or no purpose; and the porter’s dogged silence aroused Paul’s own curiosity about his sister’s inquiries. “Does Mr. Richard attend much at the office? Who and what is Mr. Gibbs? Are they particular friends of Mr. Hammerton? Do they meet together often? And where?” These were the chief questions which Miss Amy Somerton required her brother Paul to answer. Paul was fond of his sister, and had always looked up to her as one of superior knowledge to himself.