“Mélanie, we are going to Lady Ilminster’s _dejooner_.” “Miladi go everywhere fashionable.” “Oh yes, Mélanie, and I don’t know ’ow ever I shall be able to bear up against it. I feel so exhausted.” “Oh, miladi does not care herself.” “What can I do, Mélanie?—I feel so weak!” “Miladi look very pale.” “I think I must send for Dr Leadbitter.” “If miladi would take a little drop of port-wine once or twice in the day.” “You really think so, Mélanie?” “Yes truly, miladi.” “Just like a good creature open that cupboard. I always keep a bottle there in case Sir Jehoshaphat should drop in; you will find a glass. Per’aps there are two. Bring them, Mélanie, and take a glass yourself.” The seamstress did as she was bid, and, placing the decanter and glasses respectfully on the table and in the manner of a skilled practician, she sat herself down in the same deferential attitude near her employer. Lady Coxe took a bumper; then she took another, and declared herself better. Madame Mélanie’s first glass was not half emptied. “Well, Mélanie, what would you advise about my dress for this party? You know it is to be very shwosi.” “Miladi shall be the best dressed and the youngest-looking miladi in the house.” “Git along, Mélanie,” retorted miladi, stealthily filling herself another bumper. A flush pervaded the cheek of the matron. Perhaps it was of pride. “Miladi, I recommend moire antique—magenta, with quilled ribbons—chapeau of blonde with magenta trimmings—parasol to match.” “Your taste is so good, Mélanie.” “Magenta so well become miladi. Bootiful complexion—she young as Miss Constance.” “Oh, you flattering thing! but what will you give my daughters—the Miss Coxes.” “Oh, I talk to them myself. They not be Miss Coxe long, I think. Miss Florence make a very nice bride, and Miss Constance bootiful Comtesse.” “Git along; but what do you mean? Fill your glass.” Lady Coxe as a fugleman showed the way. “They tell me such a ’andsome man want to marry her—noble and rich.” “English or furrin, Mélanie?” “Not English.” “You know ’im to be rich?” “Oh yes, I know him rich. Miladi know poor woman like me obliged to make affair with all sort of people. One of my customers, Mademoiselle Dulaugier of Opera Comique. I send all her bill to Comte Rabelais, and he pay, what you call, on the nail.” “Very satisfactory,” responded Lady Coxe. “Let me ’ope Constance may be the means of leading ’im to better things.” “Indeed, let us hope so,” said Mélanie, and this time she held her glass to her lips for some seconds, though the liquid within was not much diminished. “Nothing is settled, believe me, Mélanie. But then the world is talking of it.” “Of nothing else. Who occupy London so much as your family, miladi? The Duchesse of Wiltshire, when I go to her, say to me, ‘Mélanie, tell me all about that bootiful Miladi Coques and her bootiful family. None so bootiful as the mother.’” At this moment the door admitted Florence and Constance.