So, when Arabella explained that their hope was to see Mrs.Chump go that day, owing to the rigorous exclusion of all amusement and the outer world from the house, Wilfrid regained his superior footing and made his lecture tell.

In the middle of it, there rang a cry from the doorway that astonished even him, it was so powerfully Irish.
"The lady you have called down is here," said Arabella's cold glance, in answer to his.
They sat with folded hands while Wilfrid turned to Mrs.Chump, who advanced, a shock of blue satin to the eye, crying, on a jump: "Is ut Mr.Wilfrud ?" "It's I, ma'am." Wilfrid bowed, and the censorious ladies could not deny that, his style was good, if his object was to be familiar.

And if that was his object, he was paid for it.

A great thick kiss was planted on his cheek, with the motto: "Harm to them that thinks ut." Wilfrid bore the salute like a man who presumes that he is flattered.
"And it's you!" said Mrs.Chump.

"I was just off.