They have simply to put themselves into the lottery, and only one can have the prize.' 'I never knew you so figurative before.

Sir Hugh.' 'Don't pay any attention to him, Miss Gwynne,' said a fresh addition to the circle that stood round that young lady's chair.

'He means that old Griffey Jenkins, the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.' Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked quite strained.
'I do not imagine many _young ladies_ will purchase tickets in that lottery,' she said, with a stress upon the 'young ladies.' 'I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,' responded Sir Hugh.

'And quite right too.

Such a fortune is not to be had every day.' 'But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,' said Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta's face and neck were crimson.
But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip, and, one after another, all the party joined in it.
'Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be steady,' said Mr Rice Rice.
'Except a gentleman by birth,' said his lady.
'Or the least bit of an archaeologist,' said Mr Jonathan Prothero.