appened to meet
Mrs Jupp to whom, by the way, Ernest made a small weekly allowance. It
was at Ernest's chambers, and for some reason we were left alone for a
few minutes. I said to her: "Mr Pontifex has written another book, Mrs
Jupp."

"Lor' now," said she, "has he really? Dear gentleman! Is it about
love?" And the old sinner threw up a wicked sheep's eye glance at me
from under her aged eyelids. I forget what there was in my reply which
provoked it--probably nothing--but she went rattling on at full speed to
the effect that Bell had given her a ticket for the opera, "So, of
course," she said, "I went. I didn't understand one word of it, for it
was all French, but I saw their legs. Oh dear, oh dear! I'm afraid I
shan't be here much longer, and when dear Mr Pontifex sees me in my
coffin he'll say, 'Poor old Jupp, she'll never talk broad any more'; but
bless you I'm not so old as all that, and I'm taking lessons in dancing."

At this moment Ernest came in and the conversation was changed. Mrs Jupp
asked if he was still going on writing more books now that this one was
done. "Of course I am," he answered, "I'm always writing books; here is
the manuscript of my next;" and he showed her a heap of paper.

"Well now," she exclaimed, "dear, dear me, and is that manuscript? I've
often heard talk about manuscripts, but I never thought I should live to
see some myself. Well! well! So that is really manuscript?"

There were a few geraniums in the window and they did not look well.
Ernest asked Mrs Jupp if she understood flowers. "I understand the
language of flowers," she said, with one of her most bewitching leers,
and on this we sent her off till she should choose to honour us with
another visit, which she knows she is privileged from time to time to do,
for Ernest likes her.

CHAPTER LXXXVI

And now I must bring my story to a close.

The preceding chapter was written soon after the events it records--that
is to say in the spring of 1867. By that time my story had been written
up to this point; but it has been altered here and there from time to
time occasionally. It is now the autumn of 1882, and if I am to say more
I should do so quickly, for I am eighty years old and though well in
health cannot conceal from myself that I am no longer young. Ernest
himself is forty-seven, though he hardly looks it.

He is richer than ever, for he has never married and his London and North-
Western shares hav