“Between this gentleman, Mr William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself.”

“Thank you, miss,” said Mr Guppy. “Very full — er — excuse me — lady’s name, Christian and surname both?”

I gave them.

“Married woman, I believe?” said Mr Guppy. “Married woman. Thank you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies’ Inn, within the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford Street. Much obliged.”

He ran home and came running back again.

“Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly terminated some time back,” said Mr Guppy to me, forlornly and despondently, “but it couldn’t be. Now could it, you know! I only put it to you.”

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of a doubt. He thanked me, and ran to his mother’s again — and back again.

“It’s very honourable of you, miss, I am sure,” said Mr Guppy. “If an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship — but, upon my soul, you may rely upon me in every respect, save and except the tender passion only!”

The struggle in Mr Guppy’s breast, and the numerous oscillations it occasioned him between his mother’s door and us, were sufficiently conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted cutting), to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but when we last looked back, Mr Guppy was still oscillating in the same troubled state of mind.