Even on this view Ada had comfort. They
knew the dean, her uncle did, and she herself
did a little. The two found a comfort in each
other's society, and interchanged their sorrows,
though the balance was with Mrs. Norbury.
Something else passed between them, for Ada
had a little hoard of her own, a "trifle of interest
money," that Mr. Tilney paid down with
scrupulosity and enormous flourishing (as if it
were his stick), delivering a lecture at the same
time on the value of money. These visits,
apart from such "testimonials," were in
themselves as good as gold.

On the Sunday, Mr. Norbury, after chanting
lustily, and with extraordinary vigour and
animation, in a short solo, that his "soul was
troub—led—exceedingly—exceedingly
—excee—HEE—DING—ly!!!" got into his dress suit
quite in spirits, and kissing his family all
round (by seniority, and it took some time),
set out for Mr. Tilney's. He was the first there.
The distinguished guests—the colonel, and the
colonel's lady and son—had not come. Neither
had Mr. Smiles. But his careful eye had noted
that Mrs. Tilney, languid and patronising as
usual, and her daughters, were not in the robes
of office with which they received military
effendis and sultans, but in a species of mitigated
and tempered "half toilette." It was but a
partial illumination.

"Sunday humdrum," said Mr. Norbury to
himself, "and grocer's wine."

Presently a cab drove up, and in a few
moments the head of the Smiles procession
debouched. The procession was so long and so
enriched, that it got blocked in the passage, and
had to wait there until it made its entry in
detachments. First, Mrs. Smiles, still as Queen
Elizabeth—a dahlia dressed up in yellow
satin—glowing, hot, protruding, bursting, swelling, all
over flowers and gold. This uniform she had
last worn at the Fishmongers' dinner, and had
excited the open admiration of a portly
fishmonger. The two Miss Smileses, swelling, hot,
red with their exertions, and in gorgeous pinks,
came floating in in succession, although one
had to wait in the hall while her sister was
being presented. Then came Mr. Smiles, who
was dressed to the extent of his magnificence,
and was exactly as he also had appeared at the
Fishmongers'; yet he looked at the whole with
that doubtful, sharp, inquiring glance, as if it
were a large bill. He was as crisp as one of the
New Foncier bank-notes. Then seats were found
for them all, and Mrs. Smiles's glowing face was
turned anxiously to the door, waiting the colonel
and his party, for whom all this magnificence
was intended. Mr. Smiles, too, was glad to
meet that officer and his lady in an extra-official
way, and on the easy terms with which one
gentleman meets another. It cemented relations,
and oiled the wheels of business, as it were. In
a few moments the door was opened, Jane
announced dinner, and Mr. Tilney, in a solemn
manner, offered his arm to Mrs. Smiles. This
lady, all amazement, grief, and fury, hardly
understood what he proposed. Alas! the colonel
and family were coming on the morrow to a
choice, elegant dinner, with a couple of "nice"
men for the girls. "We couldn't have these
plebeians, you know, with them," said Mrs.
Tilney. "They'd eat with their knives, or do
something of that kind. Out of the question."

"I'm afraid," said Mr. Tilney, shaking his
head gloomily, "the Smileses won't like it.
They'll find it out."

"Let them, the vulgar creatures," said Mrs.
Tilney.

They had found it out. "You see we have
nobody but ourselves," said Mrs. Tilney, who
had on a cap as insipid as her smile, with lappets.
"We knew you'd like it better."

But on the Smileses' faces, not trained to
conceal their feelings, were unmistakable
blankness, anger, and disappointment. Mr. Norbury
was cheerful, as he always was, and "rattled
on." But Mr. Smiles kept his mouth pinched
up. At an early hour they departed. In the
cab was a scene of fury.

"Now," said the sire, "what did I tell you?"

"Insufferable, outrageous," said Mrs. Smiles.
"Such impudence! Never mind, never mind!
If you don't give 'em a lesson, and grind them
for this, Smiles, never come near me."

"Impostors, as I always said," he replied.
"Do me that justice. I shall keep my eye on
him, though."

Up at the Tilneys', Mrs. Tilney had thrown
herself back wearily, with the insipid lappets
tumbling about her cheeks. "There now,"
she said, "I hope you are content. We have
paid them off now, low vulgar pack! and have
done with them."

"I hope so," said Mr. Tilney, gloomily.

The next day the elegant party came off, and
Mr. Smiles heard from the colonel, who kept
the regimental banking with him, what a "very
fair little turn out" those Tilneys had given.
Sir John Sebright and one or two more.

"Now I rely on your being down on 'em," said
Mrs. Smiles, when she heard this news.

CHAPTER XVI. A GLEAM OF HOPE.

THINGS, however, were hurrying on a little
rapidly. Doctor Topham's daughter was
married to a soldier, a baronet's nephew, and
the ceremony was performed with great
magnificence at the baronet's London house by
the dean himself, "assisted by the Reverend
Arthur Honeydew, cousin of the bride, and
the Reverend Doctor Bulstrode, incumbent
of St. Cunegonde's, Liverpool," as indeed Mrs.
Tilney had read in the copy of the Morning
Plush sent to her by a friend. "The dear dean!"
she said to her female friends, in consultation over
the event. "What a trial for him! As for the
girl, she was a plain thing, and I wonder they
got any decent man to take her."

After the conventionally "happy pair" had
gone to the baronet's seat in the country, the
dean had been taken great notice of by the
baronet himself. "I really like you, dean,"
said the baronet, with his hand on the decanter.
"You are one of the breakwaters, if I may use