To see her at Muckford appeared to Mrs. Cannon as wonderful as though she had beheld the spirits of all the bullocks Mr. Suet had ever slaughtered scampering about Smithfield. The ex-Miss Suet explained matters. She had married Mr. Grits, a grocer, who had failed thrice, once a bankrupt, and twice an insolvent, by which means he had realised a tolerable independence; yet, for appearance sake, he preferred improving his condition with the means of others, and had travelled abroad as a _maître d'hôtel_, with the Wittingtons. At another time,--nay, a few hours before their visit,--the Grits would not have been received; now, in the distressed state of the family, they were welcomed with cordiality. But the mind sickens at the object of their visit,--to advise Mr. Cannon to accede to his lordship's proposals, and not irritate a powerful enemy by an idle show of independence!!--But to think of a reconciliation brought about by a butcher's daughter and a butler!--No, no, thrice no;--the breach was immeasurably widened. Mr. Cannon stuttered and stammered all the insults that had been heaped upon him. Mrs. Grits plainly saw that no pacification could be expected; and, although she expressed the utmost regret, she was inwardly delighted, as it did not exactly suit her views that she should be known to be a butcher's daughter. She, therefore, seizing both Mrs. Cannon's trembling hands in the kindest manner, attempted to console and advise her. "I can readily imagine, my dear friend, how much this overbearing conduct of my lord should have annoyed you. Oh! he is as proud as Lucifer when he goes to open his parliament! It is such men, my dear, that make me abhor this horrible England." "Ay, horrible England!" repeated Mr. Cannon with ferocity. "I have lived too long in that dear delicious France, that _belle France_, to exist, or rather vegetate, in this abominable country." This word, "_France_," acted like a magic spell; it seemed a password, a _Shibboleth_, an _open sesame_ to regions of delight. "Ay, France is the country! only ask Mr. Grits." "Oh, there's nothing like it!" responded Mr. Grits, a jolly red-faced fellow, with an enormous abdomen, rendered more _salient_ by a flapped white waistcoat.