“‘Without doubt, ma’am, they are in the reticule, and all lost,’ said she in a very pathetic tone. “‘Really,’ said I, a little conscious stricken, ‘I don’t recollect, perhaps I might forget.’ “‘But you never could forget so many things; besides, you wrote them down.’ “‘I don’t know. I am not sure.’ But I was not listened to; Harriet’s conjecture had been metamorphosed into a certainty; all my sins of omission were stowed in the reticule, and before bed-time the little black bag held forgotten things enough to fill a sack. “Never was reticule so lamented by all but its owner; a boy was immediately dispatched to look for it, and on his returning empty-handed there was even a talk of having it cried. My care, on the other hand, was all directed to prevent its being found. I had had the good luck to lose it in a suburb of B—— renowned for filching, and I remembered that the street was at that moment full of people ... so I went to bed in the comfortable assurance that it was gone for ever. “But there is nothing certain in this world—not even a thief’s dishonesty. Two old women, who had pounced at once on my valuable property, quarrelled about the plunder, and one of them in a fit of resentment at being cheated of her share went to the mayor of B—— and informed against her companion. The mayor, an intelligent and active magistrate, immediately took the disputed bag and all its contents into his own possession, and as he is also a man of great politeness he restored it as soon as possible to the right owner. The very first thing that saluted my eyes when I awoke in the morning was a note from Mr. Mayor with a sealed packet. The fatal truth was visible. There it lay, that identical black bag, with its name-tickets, its cambric handkerchief, its unconsulted list and its thirteen bills.... I had recovered my reticule and lost my reputation!” CHAPTER XXXI ECCENTRIC NEIGHBOURS Mary Russell Mitford had strong likes and dislikes. Her American friend Mr. James T. Fields, who knew her well, remarks:[13] “She loathed mere dandies, and there were no epithets too hot for her contempt in that direction. Old beaux she heartily despised, and speaking of one whom she had known, I remember she quoted with a fine scorn this appropriate passage from Dickens: ‘Ancient, dandified men, those crippled _invalides_ from the campaign of vanity, where the only powder was hair-powder and the only bullets fancy balls.’” [Footnote 13: See _Yesterdays with Authors_.] In one of her stories we come upon such a character—Mr. Thompson as she calls him—a gentleman who had just arrived from London, and whom she met at the house of a friend. “Mr. Thompson was a gentleman of about—Pshaw! nothing is so impolite as to go guessing how many years a man may have lived in this most excellent world, especially when it is perfectly clear from his dress and demeanour that the register of his birth is the last document relating to himself which he would care to see produced.