“_You_ know, sir,” says Bedford. “_She_ had the carriage.” And he indicated the door through which Lady Baker had just retreated. “Then why didn’t I have the phaeton?” asks Bedford’s master. “Your ma and Mr. Bonnington had the phaeton.” “And why shouldn’t they, pray? Mr. Bonnington is lame: I’m at my business all day. I should like to know why they _shouldn’t_ have the phaeton?” says Lovel, appealing to me. As we had been sitting talking together previous to Miss Prior’s appearance, Lady Baker had said to Lovel, “Your mother and Mr. Bonnington are coming to dinner _of course_, Frederick;” and Lovel had said, “Of course they are,” with a peevish bluster, whereof I now began to understand the meaning. The fact was, these two women were fighting for the possession of this child; but who was the Solomon to say which should have him? Not I. _Nenni._ I put my oar in no man’s boat. Give me an easy life, my dear friends, and row me gently over. “You had better go and dress,” says Bedford sternly, looking at his master; “the first bell has rung this quarter of an hour. Will you have some 34?” Lovel started up; he looked at the clock. “You are all ready, Batch, I see. I hope you are going to stay some time, ain’t you?” And he disappeared to array himself in his sables and starch. I was thus alone with Miss Prior, and her young charges, who resumed straightway their infantine gambols and quarrels. “My dear Bessy!” I cry, holding out both hands, “I am heartily glad to----” “_Ne m’appelez que de mon nom paternel devant tout ce monde s’il vous plait, mon cher ami, mon bon protecteur!_” she says, hastily, in very good French, folding her hands and making a curtsey. “_Oui, oui, oui! Parlez-vous Français? J’aime, tu aimes, il aime!_” cries out dear Master Popham. “What are you talking about? Here’s the phaeton!” and the young innocent dashes through the open window on to the lawn, whither he is followed by his sister, and where we see the carriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington rolling over the smooth walk. Bessy advances towards me, and gives me readily enough now the hand she had refused anon. “I never thought you would have refused it, Bessy,” said I. “Refuse it to the best friend I ever had!” she says, pressing my hand. “Ah, dear Mr. Batchelor, what an ungrateful wretch I should be, if I did!”