The door opened and that personage was ushered in. Mr. Marchbanks merits a description quite as much as his mistress. Yet how to do justice to him, that is the problem. The poise of his bearing, his urbane reserve, his patrician demeanor were those of an ambassador. His whole being was enveloped in an air of high diplomacy. His most trivial action seemed to raise the ghost of Lord John Russell. Like his venerable mistress, he was a Whig to the core. He had been born, he had been bred, and by the grace of God he was determined to die in that tradition. Under the left arm of Mr. Marchbanks was the _Morning Post_, which organ of opinion had been warmed by his own hands. In his right hand he bore a small silver dish. Upon it was a little pile of rather important-looking correspondence. With the courtly grace of a bygone age, Mr. Marchbanks bowed to the occupant of the four-poster--old ladies who live in Hill Street do not put their faith in new furniture--and his venerable mistress was pleased to say-- “Good morning, Marchbanks.” “Good morning, my lady,” said Mr. Marchbanks very gravely; and then said he with a benevolence that would have made a considerable fortune in Harley Street: “I trust your ladyship has slept well.” “As well as one can expect at my age,” said the occupant of the four-poster. No, Mr. Marchbanks did not offer his venerable mistress many happy returns of her birthday. And to those of our readers who aspire to serve old ladies who live in Hill Street--and let us not be judged immodest if we express the belief that many who are inspired with this excellent ambition will be found among them--a word of warning may not be out of place. Let us urge these neophytes not to take the practice of Mr. Marchbanks for their guide. His eminence was the fruit of years. Remember he had been tipped by the Duke of Wellington. He had pulled down the coat collar of Lord Palmerston on more than one occasion; while as for Lord Granville, he knew him as well as he knew his own father. “How is Ponto this morning?” inquired the occupant of the four-poster. “In excellent spirits, my lady.” “And his appetite?” “He has eaten a chicken, my lady, with excellent relish.” “Humph,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “that dog eats as much as a Christian.” In the opinion of Mr. Marchbanks Ponto ate more, but he did not say so. He was content merely to bow and withdraw with simple yet ample dignity. The old lady read her letters and glanced at the Court Circular, the Parliamentary Report, and the Money Market. She then announced her intention of getting up. Over the divers things incident to this complex process it is doubtless well to draw the veil. Let it suffice that an hour and a half later she reached her morning-room, a veritable dragon in black silk and a brown wig, leaning on an ebony walking-stick.