We remained in London about two weeks. My Uncle Charles, my mother's brother, was out of town with his family when we first arrived, but he soon returned, and came at once to see us, with his wife. They were a very fine lady and gentleman indeed, and dressed in the extreme of the fashion. My aunt especially was quite wonderful to behold, with her great bush of false hair, almost white, which formed an odd contrast to her dark eyes and eyebrows. Her forehead and cheeks were spotted with patches in the form of crescents, stars, and what not, and she wore the richest of brocades with heaps of silver lace. She was a very pretty woman, and very good-natured as well, though rather affected. I admired her hugely, as the first specimen of a fine lady I had ever seen. They were very kind and attentive to us, and my aunt was earnest with my mother to remain with her, instead of going down into that barbarous Cornwall, as she called it. "Meg does not think it a barbarous desert, you see," said my uncle, with some pique in his voice, I thought. "And as you have never seen it and she has, she is perhaps the better judge." "But such a lonely place," said my lady, with a very little pout; "no society, no gentry! I should die of megrims in a week." "Margaret will not die of megrims, I'll engage," said my uncle; "nor my niece here. Come here, child, and let us look at you. I protest, Margaret, she is a beauty. Leave her with us, if you will not remain yourself, and we will find her a good husband." "Vevette's market is already made," said my mother, smiling, though I could see she was annoyed. "You know it was an old family compact that she is to marry her cousin Andrew, and both the young folks are well suited therewith." "Andrew Corbet! Why, he is not even a captain, and the estate at Tre Madoc cannot be worth more than four hundred a year all told," said my uncle. "Besides, unless he abandons his profession, the child will be a widow without any of the advantages of widowhood. There, I beg your pardon, Meg. I did not mean to hurt you." My mother made no reply, but began to ask after other members of the family—the Stantons and Corbets of Devonshire. "Oh, poor Walter is dead of the plague, and his young wife also! He married a girl young enough to be his daughter, and a great beauty, but neither of them lived long." "I thought his wife was that Margaret Matou, who lived at the court with the former Lady Stanton," said my mother. "Yes, she was his first wife, and a charming creature, I must say, though not handsome; but the second was quite different. However, she died, poor thing, and left no children, so the old house stands empty at present." "There was a daughter, was there not?" "Yes, she lives with Mr. Evelyn, her guardian, who is bringing her up in his strait-laced fashion." "To be a companion to his pattern Mrs. Godolphin," said his wife, laughing.