“I don’t know why you call my poor child a venerable relative,” Mrs. B. remarks. “I know that Popham was very rude to him; and then Robert came to his brother, and that graceless little Popham took a stick, and my husband came out, and do you know Popham Lovel actually kicked Mr. Bonnington on the shins, and butted him like a little naughty ram; and if you think such conduct is a subject for ridicule—I _don’t_, Mr. Batchelor!” “My dear—dear lady!” I cried, seizing her hand; for she was going to cry, and in woman’s eye the unanswerable tear always raises a deuce of a commotion in my mind. “I would not for the world say a word that should willingly vex you; and as for Popham, I give you my honour, I think nothing would do that child so much good as a good whipping.” “He is spoiled, madam; we know by _whom_,” says Mrs. Prior. “Dear Lady Baker! how that red does become your ladyship.” In fact, Lady B. sailed in at this juncture, arrayed in ribbons of scarlet; with many brooches, bangles, and other gimcracks ornamenting her plenteous person. And now her ladyship having arrived, Bedford announced that dinner was served, and Lovel gave his mother-in-law an arm, whilst I offered mine to Mrs. Bonnington to lead her to the adjoining dining-room. And the pacable kind soul speedily made peace with me. And we ate and drank of Lovel’s best. And Lady Baker told us her celebrated anecdote of George the Fourth’s compliment to her late dear husband, Sir George, when his Majesty visited Ireland. Mrs. Prior and her basket were gone when we repaired to the drawing-room: having been hunting all day, the hungry mother had returned with her prey to her wide-mouthed birdikins. Elizabeth looked very pale and handsome, reading at her lamp. And whist and the little tray finished the second day at Shrublands.