“Yes, the first bell has rung, and grandmamma must go, for it always takes her a precious long time to dress for dinner!” cries Pop. And, indeed, on looking at Lady Baker, the connoisseur might perceive that her ladyship was a highly composite person, whose charms required very much care and arrangement. There are some cracked old houses where the painters and plumbers and puttyers are always at work. “Have the goodness to ring the bell!” she says, in a majestic manner, to Miss Prior, though I think Lady Baker herself was nearest. I sprang towards the bell myself, and my hand meets Elizabeth’s there, who was obeying her ladyship’s summons, and who retreats, making me the demurest curtsey. At the summons, enter Bedford the butler (he was an old friend of mine, too) and young Buttons, the page under that butler. Lady Baker points to a heap of articles on a table, and says to Bedford: “If you please, Bedford, tell my man to give those things to Pinhorn, my maid, to be taken to my room.” “Shall not I take them up, dear Lady Baker?” says Miss Prior. But Bedford, looking at his subordinate, says: “Thomas! tell Bulkeley, her ladyship’s man, to take her ladyship’s things, and give them to her ladyship’s maid.” There was a tone of sarcasm, even of parody, in Monsieur Bedford’s voice; but his manner was profoundly grave and respectful. Drawing up her person, and making a motion, I don’t know whether of politeness or defiance, exit Lady Baker, followed by page, bearing bandboxes, shawls, paper parcels, parasols--I know not what. Dear Popham stands on his head as grandmamma leaves the room. “Don’t be vulgar!” cries little Cecy (the dear child is always acting as a little Mentor to her brother). “I shall, if I like,” says Pop; and he makes faces at her. “You know your room, Batch?” asks the master of the house. “Mr. Batchelor’s old room--always has the blue room,” says Bedford, looking very kindly at me. “Give us,” cries Lovel, “a bottle of that Sau....” “... Terne, Mr. Batchelor used to like. Château Yquem. All right!” says Mr. Bedford. “How will you have the turbot done you brought down?--Dutch sauce?--Make lobster into salad? Mr. Bonnington likes lobster salad,” says Bedford. Pop is winding up the butler’s back at this time. It is evident Mr. Bedford is a privileged person in the family. As he had entered it on my nomination several years ago, and had been ever since the faithful valet, butler, and major-domo of Lovel, Bedford and I were always good friends when we met. “By the way, Bedford, why wasn’t the barouche sent for me to the bridge?” cries Lovel. “I had to walk all the way home, with a bat and stumps for Pop, with the basket of fish, and that bandbox with my lady’s----” “He--he!” grins Bedford. “‘He--he!’ Confound you, why do you stand grinning there? Why didn’t I have the carriage, I say?” bawls the master of the house.