ppose either of the girls
will be glad enough to take him?'

'Trust them for that,' replied Mrs. Jawleyford, with a knowing smile and
nod of the head: 'trust them for that,' repeated she. 'Though Amelia does
turn up her nose and pretend to be fine, rely upon it she only wants to be
sure that he's worth having.'

'Emily seems ready enough, at all events,' observed Jawleyford.

'She'll never get the chance,' observed Mrs. Jawleyford. 'Amelia is a very
prudent girl, and won't commit herself, but she knows how to manage the
men.'

'Well, then,' said Jawleyford, with a hearty yawn, 'I suppose we may as
well go to bed.'

So saying, he took his candle and retired.

CHAPTER XIX

THE WET DAY

When the dirty slip-shod housemaid came in the morning with her
blacksmith's-looking tool-box to light Mr. Sponge's fire, a riotous
winter's day was in the full swing of its gloomy, deluging power. The wind
howled, and roared, and whistled, and shrieked, playing a sort of aeolian
harp amongst the towers, pinnacles, and irregular castleisations of the
house; while the old casements rattled and shook, as though some one were
trying to knock them in.

'Hang the day!' muttered Sponge from beneath the bedclothes. 'What the
deuce is a man to do with himself on such a day as this, in the country?'
thinking how much better he would be flattening his nose against the
coffee-room window of the Bantam, or strolling through the horse-dealers'
stables in Piccadilly or Oxford Street.

Presently the over-night chair before the fire, with the picture of
Jawleyford in the Bumperkin yeomanry, as seen through the parted curtains
of the spacious bed, recalled his over-night speculations, and he began to
think that perhaps he was just as well where he was. He then 'backed' his
ideas to where he had left off, and again began speculating on the chances
of his position. 'Deuced fine girls,' said he, 'both of 'em: wonder what
he'll give 'em down?'--recurring to his over-night speculations, and
hitting upon the point at which he had burnt his lips with the end of the
cigar--namely, Jawleyford's youth, and the possibility of his marrying
again if Mrs. Jawleyford were to die. 'It won't do to raise up
difficulties for one's self, however,' mused he; so, kicking off the
bedclothes, he raised himself instead, and making for a window, began to
gaze upon his expectant territory.

It was a terrible day; the ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along,