Mrs. Newt rose and bowed a little stiffly, and said, in an excited voice, that really she had no idea, but she was very happy indeed, she was sure, and so was Mr. Newt. When she had tied her sentence in an inextricable knot, she stopped and seated herself. Boniface Newt rose slowly and gravely. He was bent like a very old man. His eye was hard and dull, and his dry voice said: "How do you do? I am happy to see you." Then he sat down again, while Lawrence went up and shook hands with the new-comers. Boniface drummed slowly upon his knees with the long, bony white fingers, and rocked to and fro mechanically, as he sat. When Lawrence had ended his greetings there was a pause. Mrs. Newt seemed to be painfully conscious of it. So did Mr. Bennet, whose eyes wandered about the room, resting for a few instants upon Boniface, then sliding toward his wife. Boniface himself seemed to be entirely unconscious of any pause, or of any person, or of any thing, except some mysterious erratic measure that he was beating with the bony fingers. "It is a great while since we have met, Mrs. Newt," said Mrs. Bennet. "Yes," returned Mrs. Nancy Newt, rapidly; "and now that we are to be so very nearly related, it is really high time that we became intimate." She looked, however, very far off from intimacy with the person she addressed. "I am glad our children are so happy, Mrs. Newt," said Gerald Bennet, in a tremulous voice, with his eyes glimmering. "Yes. I am glad Gabriel's prospects are so good," returned Mrs. Newt. "I've no doubt he'll be a very rich man very soon." When she had spoken, Boniface Newt, still drumming, turned his face and looked quietly at his wife. Nobody spoke. Gabriel only winced at what May's mother had said; and they all looked at Boniface. The old man gazed fixedly at his wife as if he saw nobody else, and as if he were repeating the words to which the bony fingers beat time. He said, in a cold, dry voice, still beating time, "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" "I'm sure, Boniface, I know that, if any body does," said his wife, pettishly, and in a half-whimpering voice. "I think we've all learned that." "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" he said, beating with the bony fingers. "Really, Boniface," said his wife, with an air of offended propriety, "I see no occasion for such pointed allusions to our misfortunes. It is certainly in very bad taste." "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" persisted her husband, still gazing at her, and still beating time with the white bony fingers. Mrs. Newt's whimpering broadened into crying. She sat weeping and wiping her eyes, in the way which used to draw down a storm from her husband. There was no storm now. Only the same placid stare--only the same measured refrain. "Riches have wings! Riches have wings!" Lawrence Newt laid his hand gently on his brother's arm. "Boniface, you did your best. We all did what we thought best and right."