And here the second bell rings, and I enter the morning-room, and can see Mrs. Prior’s great basket popped cunningly under the table-cloth. Her basket?—her _porte-manteau_, her _porte-bouteille_, her _porte-gâteau_, her _porte-pantalon_, her _porte-butin_ in general. Thus I could see that every day Mrs. Prior visited Shrublands she gleaned greedily of the harvest. Well, Boaz was rich, and this ruthless Ruth was hungry and poor. At the welcome summons of the second bell, Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington also made their appearance; the latter in the new cap which Mrs. Prior had admired, and which she saluted with a nod of smiling recognition: “Dear madam, it _is_ lovely—I told you it was,” whispers Mrs. P., and the wearer of the blue ribbons turned her bonny, good-natured face towards the looking-glass, and I hope saw no reason to doubt Mrs. Prior’s sincerity. As for Bonnington, I could perceive that he had been taking a little nap before dinner,—a practice by which the appetite is improved, I think, and the intellect prepared for the bland prandial conversation. “Have the children been quite good?” asks papa, of the governess. “There are worse children, sir,” says Miss Prior, meekly. “Make haste and have your dinner; we are coming into dessert!” cries Pop. “You would not have us go to dine without your grandmother?” papa asks. Dine without Lady Baker, indeed! I should have liked to see him go to dinner without Lady Baker. Pending her ladyship’s arrival, papa and Mr. Bonnington walk to the open window, and gaze on the lawn and the towers of Putney rising over the wall. “Ah, my good Mrs. Prior,” cries Mrs. Bonnington, “those grandchildren of mine are sadly spoiled.” “Not by _you_, dear madam,” says Mrs. Prior, with a look of commiseration. “Your dear children at home are, I am sure, perfect models of goodness. Is Master Edward well, ma’am? and Master Robert, and Master Richard, and dear, funny little Master William? Ah, what blessings those children are to you! If a certain wilful little nephew of theirs took after them!” “The little naughty wretch!” cried Mrs. Bonnington; “do you know, Prior, my grandson Frederick—(I don’t know why they call him Popham in this house, or why he should be ashamed of his father’s name)—do you know that Popham spilt the ink over my dear husband’s bands, which he keeps in his great dictionary, and fought with my Richard, who is three years older than Popham, and actually beat his own uncle!” “Gracious goodness!” I cried; “you don’t mean to say, ma’am, that Pop has been laying violent hands upon his venerable relative?” I feel ever so gentle a pull at my coat. Was it Miss Prior who warned me not to indulge in the sarcastic method with good Mrs. Bonnington?