"If I should say a thousand Noes, there exists not the alchymy in living man that could extract one Yes out of the whole mass," said her ladyship. "Blessed be the memory of Queen Bess!--She set us all an example to keep power when we have it--What noise is that?" "Only the usual after-dinner quarrel," said the divine. "I hear the Captain's voice, else most silent, commanding them to keep peace, in the devil's name and that of the ladies." "Upon my word, dearest Lady Binks, this is too bad of that lord and master of yours, and of Mowbray, who might have more sense, and of the rest of that claret-drinking set, to be quarrelling and alarming our nerves every evening with presenting their pistols perpetually at each other, like sportsmen confined to the house upon a rainy 12th of August. I am tired of the Peace-maker--he but skins the business over in one case to have it break out elsewhere.--What think you, love, if we were to give out in orders, that the next quarrel which may arise, shall be _bona fide_ fought to an end?--We will all go out and see it, and wear the colours on each side; and if there should a funeral come of it, we will attend it in a body.--Weeds are so becoming!--Are they not, my dear Lady Binks? Look at Widow Blower in her deep black--don't you envy her, my love?" Lady Binks seemed about to make a sharp and hasty answer, but checked herself, perhaps under the recollection that she could not prudently come to an open breach with Lady Penelope.--At the same moment the door opened, and a lady dressed in a riding-habit, and wearing a black veil over her hat, appeared at the entry of the apartment. "Angels and ministers of grace!" exclaimed Lady Penelope, with her very best tragic start--"my dearest Clara, why so late? and why thus? Will you step to my dressing-room--Jones will get you one of my gowns--we are just of a size, you know--do, pray--let me be vain of something of my own for once, by seeing you wear it." This was spoken in the tone of the fondest female friendship, and at the same time the fair hostess bestowed on Miss Mowbray one of those tender caresses, which ladies--God bless them!--sometimes bestow on each other with unnecessary prodigality, to the great discontent and envy of the male spectators. "You are fluttered, my dearest Clara--you are feverish--I am sure you are," continued the sweetly anxious Lady Penelope; "let me persuade you to lie down." "Indeed you are mistaken, Lady Penelope," said Miss Mowbray, who seemed to receive much as a matter of course her ladyship's profusion of affectionate politeness:--"I am heated, and my pony trotted hard, that is the whole mystery.--Let me have a cup of tea, Mrs. Jones, and the matter is ended."