entally debating whether he ought not, in justice to his thin legs, to
substitute an ampler style of integuments.

Matthew Maltboy had also been invited to this _soiree dramatique_ (as
Mrs. Slapman's large pasteboards expressed it). A fat man was a
necessity of the play. Mrs. Slapman was not cordial to Matthew,
regarding him as an excessively commonplace person, and had invited him
to her social gatherings out of courtesy to Overtop; but her artist eye
saw in him a fitness for the fat man. Matthew was delighted with the
implied compliment to those talents for the stage which every man
supposes himself to possess in some degree, and cheerfully undertook
the part.

The proprieties of costume did not in the least perplex Mr. Maltboy, as
he lay on the sofa digesting his dinner, and puffing out smoke rings by
the dozen. His thoughts were mildly fixed on that delightful Miss
Whedell. Five times he had been graciously permitted to visit the lady
at her house, and to discover a score of new charms at each interview. A
large experience in love making assured him that the object of his
idolatry was not wholly indifferent to him. The paternal Whedell had
hobbies. Matthew had studied them, like a skilful strategist, catered to
them, and felt quite sure that he had that revered individual on his
side. But, in the midst of these pleasant imaginings, there rose the
dark and baleful image of Chiffield!

Marcus Wilkeson was also pondering--pleasantly, if one might judge from
the contented smile upon his lips. The subject of his thoughts was one
which, for reasons that seemed good to him, he still kept secret from
his fellow bachelors. He had freely told them of his singular adventure
at the house of the old gentleman opposite; but not a word of the
inventor and his daughter, and of the private school at Miss Pillbody's.
Not even the minute and sometimes tedious accounts which Overtop and
Maltboy gave of their private thoughts and experiences, could induce
Marcus to reciprocate their confidence. For the first time in his life
he wore a mask before his companions, and prevaricated, and became, on a
small scale, a humbug.

The sharp ringing of the doorbell broke in upon the quiet reflections of
the three bachelors. Mash, the cook, who was at that moment reading the
fifteenth chapter of "The Buttery and the Boudoir: A Tale of Real Life,"
in her favorite weekly, threw down the paper in a passion, bounded up
stairs, and admitted John Wesl