“But would it not he adding to his unhappiness, to marry without his knowledge or consent, my dear?” said I.

“No,” said Miss Jellyby, softening. “I hope not. I should try to make him happy and comfortable when he came to see me; and Peepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay with me; and they should have some care taken of them, then.”

There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softened more and more while saying this, and cried so much over the unwonted little home-picture she had raised in her mind, that Peepy, in his cave under the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his back with loud lamentations. It was not until I had brought him to kiss his sister, and had restored him to his place in my lap, and had shown him that Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), that we could recall his peace of mind; even then, it was for some time conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin, and smoothing our faces all over with his hand. At last, as his spirits were not equal to the piano, we put him on a chair to look out of window; and Miss Jellyby, holding him by one leg, resumed her confidence.

“It began in your coming to our house,” she said.

We naturally asked how.

“I felt I was so awkward,” she replied, “that I made up my mind to be improved in that respect, at all events, and to learn to dance. I told Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance. Ma looked at me in that provoking way of hers as if I wasn’t in sight; but, I was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to Mr Turveydrop’s Academy in Newman Street.”

“And was it there, my dear—” I began.

“Yes, it was there,” said Caddy, “and I am engaged to Mr Turveydrop. There are two Mr Turveydrops, father and son. My Mr Turveydrop is the son, of course. I only wish I had been better brought up, and was likely to make him a better wife; for I am very fond of him.”

“I am sorry to hear this,” said I, “I must confess.”

“I don’t know why you should be sorry,” she retorted a little anxiously, “but I am engaged to Mr Turveydrop, whether or no, and he is very fond of me. It’s a secret as yet, even on his side, because old Mr Turveydrop has a share in the connexion and it might break his heart, or give him some other shock, if he was told of it abruptly. Old Mr Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man indeed — very gentlemanly.”

“Does his wife know of it?” asked Ada.

“Old Mr Turveydrop’s wife, Miss Clare?” returned Miss Jellyby, opening her eyes. “There’s no such person. He is a widower.”

We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had undergone so much on account of his sister’s unconsciously jerking it like a bell-rope whenever she was emphatic that the afflicted child now bemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As he appealed to me for compassion, and as I was only a listener, I undertook to hold him. Miss Jellyby proceeded, after begging Peepy’s pardon with a kiss and assuring him that she hadn’t meant to do it.

“That’s the state of the case,” said Caddy. “If I ever blame myself, I still think it’s Ma’s fault. We are to be married whenever we can, and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write to Ma. It won’t much agitate Ma: I am only pen and ink to her. One great comfort is,” said Caddy with a sob, “that I shall never hear of Africa after I am married. Young Mr Turveydrop hates it for my sake; and if old Mr Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it’s as much as he does.”

“It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think!” said I.