Vane stopped her in dismay. He felt how many satirical eyes and ears were upon him and his wife. “Pray go and change your dress first, Mabel,” cried he, fully determined that on her return she should not find the present party there. Mrs. Vane cast an imploring look on Mrs. Woffington. “My things are not come,” said she. “And, Lady Betty, I had so much to tell him, and to be sent away;” and the deep blue eyes began to fill. Now Mrs. Woffington was determined that this lady, who she saw was simple, should disgust her husband by talking twaddle before a band of satirists. So she said warmly: “It is not fair on us. Pray, madam, your budget of country news. Clouted cream so seldom comes to London quite fresh.” “There, you see, Ernest,” said the unsuspicious soul. “First, you must know that Gray Gillian is turned out for a brood mare, so old George won't let me ride her; old servants are such tyrants, my lady. And my Barbary hen has laid two eggs; Heaven knows the trouble we had to bring her to it. And Dame Best, that is my husband's old nurse, Mrs. Quickly, has had soup and pudding from the Hall everyday; and once she went so far as to say it wasn't altogether a bad pudding. She is not a very grateful woman, in a general way, poor thing! I made it with these hands.” Vane writhed. “Happy pudding!” observed Mr. Cibber. “Is this mockery, sir?” cried Vane, with a sudden burst of irritation. “No, sir; it is gallantry,” replied Cibber, with perfect coolness. “Will you hear a little music in the garden?” said Vane to Mrs. Woffington, pooh-poohing his wife's news. “Not till I hear the end of Dame Bess.” “Best, my lady.” “Dame Best interests _me,_ Mr. Vane.” “Ay, and Ernest is very fond of her, too, when he is at home. She is in her nice new cottage, dear; but she misses the draughts that were in her old one--they were like old friends. 'The only ones I have, I'm thinking,' said the dear cross old thing; and there stood I, on her floor, with a flannel petticoat in both hands, that I had made for her, and ruined my finger. Look else, my Lord Foppington?” She extended a hand the color of cream. “Permit me, madam?” taking out his glasses, with which he inspected her finger; and gravely announced to the company: “The laceration is, in fact, discernible. May I be permitted, madam,” added he, “to kiss this fair hand, which I should never have suspected of having ever made itself half so useful?” “Ay, my lord!” said she, coloring slightly, “you shall, because you are so old; but I don't say for a young gentleman, unless it was the one that belongs to me; and he does not ask me.” “My dear Mabel; pray remember we are not at Willoughby.” “I see we are not, Ernest.” And the dove-like eyes filled brimful; and all her innocent prattle was put an end to. “What brutes men are,” thought Mrs. Woffington. “They are not worthy even of a fool like this.”