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There
was
a
bower
at
the
farther
end
,
with
honeysuckle
,
jessamine
,
and
creeping
plants
—
one
of
those
sweet
retreats
which
humane
men
erect
for
the
accommodation
of
spiders
.
The
spinster
aunt
took
up
a
large
watering
-
pot
which
lay
in
one
corner
,
and
was
about
to
leave
the
arbour
.
Mr
.
Tupman
detained
her
,
and
drew
her
to
a
seat
beside
him
.
‘
Miss
Wardle
!
’
said
he
.
The
spinster
aunt
trembled
,
till
some
pebbles
which
had
accidentally
found
their
way
into
the
large
watering
-
pot
shook
like
an
infant
’
s
rattle
.
‘
Miss
Wardle
,
’
said
Mr
.
Tupman
,
‘
you
are
an
angel
.
’
‘
Mr
.
Tupman
!
’
exclaimed
Rachael
,
blushing
as
red
as
the
watering
-
pot
itself
.
‘
Nay
,
’
said
the
eloquent
Pickwickian
—
‘
I
know
it
but
too
well
.
’
‘
All
women
are
angels
,
they
say
,
’
murmured
the
lady
playfully
.
‘
Then
what
can
you
be
;
or
to
what
,
without
presumption
,
can
I
compare
you
?
’
replied
Mr
.
Tupman
.
‘
Where
was
the
woman
ever
seen
who
resembled
you
?
Where
else
could
I
hope
to
find
so
rare
a
combination
of
excellence
and
beauty
?
Where
else
could
I
seek
to
—
Oh
!
’
Here
Mr
.
Tupman
paused
,
and
pressed
the
hand
which
clasped
the
handle
of
the
happy
watering
-
pot
.
The
lady
turned
aside
her
head
.
‘
Men
are
such
deceivers
,
’
she
softly
whispered
.
