“After an interval almost convulsive, Baby curled her little hands in one another and smiled.”

Mrs Veneering stopping here, Mr Podsnap deems it incumbent on him to say: “I wonder why!”

“Could it be, I asked myself,” says Mrs Veneering, looking about her for her pocket-handkerchief, “that the Fairies were telling Baby that her papa would shortly be an M. P.?”

So overcome by the sentiment is Mrs Veneering, that they all get up to make a clear stage for Veneering, who goes round the table to the rescue, and bears her out backward, with her feet impressively scraping the carpet: after remarking that her work has been too much for her strength. Whether the fairies made any mention of the five thousand pounds, and it disagreed with Baby, is not speculated upon.

Poor little Twemlow, quite done up, is touched. and still continues touched after he is safely housed over the livery-stable yard in Duke Street, Saint James’s. But there, upon his sofa, a tremendous consideration breaks in upon the mild gentleman, putting all softer considerations to the rout.

“Gracious heavens! Now I have time to think of it, he never saw one of his constituents in all his days, until we saw them together!”

After having paced the room in distress of mind, with his hand to his forehead, the innocent Twemlow returns to his sofa and moans:

“I shall either go distracted, or die, of this man. He comes upon me too late in life. I am not strong enough to bear him!”