"Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the thoughts of a Christmas spent from home; and, moreover, my sister is going to be married."
"Is she—when?"
"Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in making preparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I've only got the news in this letter, which you stigmatise as dull and stupid, and won't let me read."
"Who is she to be married to?"
"To Mr. Richardson, the vicar of a neighbouring parish."
"Is he rich?"
"No,—only comfortable."
"Is he handsome?"
"No,—only decent."
"Young?
"No—only middling."
"O mercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?"
"A quiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old fashioned garden, and—"
