ll for aught he has observed to the contrary.
'You wouldn't say they were red, I suppose?' says Mr. Whiffler. The
friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the
expression of Mr. Whiffler's face that red is not the colour, smiles with
some confidence, and says, 'No, no! very different from that.' 'What
should you say to blue?' says Mr. Whiffler. The friend glances at him,
and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, 'I
should say they _were_ blue--a decided blue.' 'To be sure!' cries Mr.
Whiffler, triumphantly, 'I knew you would! But what should you say if I
was to tell you that the boy's eyes are blue and the girl's hazel, eh?'
'Impossible!' exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be
impossible. 'A fact, notwithstanding,' cries Mr. Whiffler; 'and let me
tell you, Saunders, _that's_ not a common thing in twins, or a
circumstance that'll happen every day.'

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the
twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now
relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick's bearing upon the
subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and
causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick's if he had
heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell
Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the
anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom's wit
and Dick's wit, from which it appears that Dick's humour is of a lively
turn, while Tom's style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being
enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only
stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery
bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste
the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it
is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the
sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the
dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children,
closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As
the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking--some influenced by a
ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a
conflict of the two feelings--a pretty long space elapses before all
their heads can be ranged round the ta