“I am disposed to think,” says he, “that this is a question of the feelings of a gentleman.”

“A gentleman can have no feelings who contracts such a marriage,” flushes Podsnap.

“Pardon me, sir,” says Twemlow, rather less mildly than usual, “I don’t agree with you. If this gentleman’s feelings of gratitude, of respect, of admiration, and affection, induced him (as I presume they did) to marry this lady —”

“This lady!” echoes Podsnap.

“Sir,” returns Twemlow, with his wristbands bristling a little, “you repeat the word; I repeat the word. This lady. What else would you call her, if the gentleman were present?”

This being something in the nature of a poser for Podsnap, he merely waves it away with a speechless wave.

“I say,” resumes Twemlow, “if such feelings on the part of this gentleman, induced this gentleman to marry this lady, I think he is the greater gentleman for the action, and makes her the greater lady. I beg to say, that when I use the word, gentleman, I use it in the sense in which the degree may be attained by any man. The feelings of a gentleman I hold sacred, and I confess I am not comfortable when they are made the subject of sport or general discussion.”

“I should like to know,” sneers Podsnap, “whether your noble relation would be of your opinion.”

“Mr. Podsnap,” retorts Twemlow, “permit me. He might be, or he might not be. I cannot say. But, I could not allow even him to dictate to me on a point of great delicacy, on which I feel very strongly.”

Somehow, a canopy of wet blanket seems to descend upon the company, and Lady Tippins was never known to turn so very greedy or so very cross. Mortimer Lightwood alone brightens. He has been asking himself, as to every other member of the Committee in turn, “I wonder whether you are the Voice!” But he does not ask himself the question after Twemlow has spoken, and he glances in Twemlow’s direction as if he were grateful. When the company disperse — by which time Mr. and Mrs. Veneering have had quite as much as they want of the honor, and the guests have had quite as much as they want of the other honor — Mortimer sees Twemlow home, shakes hands with him cordially at parting, and fares to the Temple, gaily.—THE END.