her mother's manner
suggests a background to Sally. She has smelt a rat, and suddenly fixes
her eyes on a tell-tale countenance fraught with mysterious reserves.

"Mother, you _are_ going to marry Mr. Fenwick!" No change of type could
do justice to the emphasis with which Sally goes straight to the point.
Italics throughout would be weak. Her mother smiles as she fondles her
daughter's excited face.

"I am, darling. So you may kiss him yourself when he comes to-morrow
evening."

And Tishy's passion for the shop-boy had to stand over. But, as the
Major had said, the mother and daughter talked till three in the
morning--well, past two, anyhow!

CHAPTER XV

CONCERNING DR. VEREKER AND HIS MAMMA, WHO HAD KNOWN IT ALL ALONG. HOW
SALLY LUNCHED WITH THE SALES WILSONS, AND GOT SPECULATING ABOUT HER
FATHER. HOW TISHY LET OUT ABOUT MAJOR ROPER. HOW THERE WAS A WEDDING

The segment of a circle of Society that did duty for a sphere, in the
case of Mrs. Nightingale and Sally, was collectively surprised when it
heard of the intended marriage of the former, having settled in its own
mind that the latter was the magnet to Mr. Fenwick's lodestone. But
each several individual that composed it had, it seemed, foreseen
exactly what was going to happen, and had predicted it in language that
could only have been wilfully mistaken by persons interested in proving
that the speaker was not a prophet. Exceptional insight had been
epidemic. The only wonder was (to the individual speaker) that Mrs.
Nightingale had remained single so long, and the only other wonder was
that none of the other cases had seen it. They had evidently only taken
seership mildly.

Dr. Vereker had a good opportunity of studying omniscience of a
malignant type in the very well marked case of his own mother. You may
remember Sally's denunciation of her as an old hen that came wobbling
down on you. When her son (in the simplicity of his heart) announced
to her as a great and curious piece of news that Mr. Fenwick was
going to marry Mrs. Nightingale, she did not even look up from her
knitting to reply: "What did I say to you, Conny?" For his name was
Conrad, as Sally had reported. His discretion was not on the alert on
this occasion, for he incautiously asked, "When?"

The good lady laid down her knitting on her knees, and folded her
hands, interlacing her fingers, which were fat, as far as they would
go, and leaning back with closed eyes--eyes intended t