Lady Baker growled at me, then, during lunch-time. She addressed herself in whispers and hints to Mr. Drencher. She had in her own man Bulkeley, and bullied him. She desired to know whether she was to have the barouche or not: and when informed that it was at her ladyship’s service, said it was a great deal too cold for the open carriage, and that she would have the brougham. When she was told that Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington had impounded the brougham, she said she had no idea of people taking other people’s carriages: and when Mr. Bedford remarked that her ladyship had her choice that morning, and had chosen the barouche, she said, “I didn’t speak to you, sir; and I will thank you not to address me until you are spoken to!” She made the place so hot that I began to wish I had quitted it. “And pray, Miss Prior, where is Captain Baker to sleep,” she asked, “now that the ground-floor room is engaged?” Miss Prior meekly said, “Captain Baker would have the pink room.” “The room on my landing-place, without double doors? Impossible! Clarence is always smoking. Clarence will fill the whole house with his smoke. He shall _not_ sleep in the pink room. I expected the ground-floor room for him, which—a—this gentleman persists in not vacating.” And the dear creature looked me full in the face. “This gentleman smokes, too, and is so comfortable where he is, that he proposes to remain there,” I say, with a bland smile. “Haspic of plovers’ eggs, sir,” says Bedford, handing a dish over my back. And he actually gave me a little dig, and growled, “Go it—give it her.” “There is a capital inn on the Heath,” I continue, peeling one of my opal favourites. “If Captain Baker must smoke, he may have a room there.” “Sir! my son does not live at inns,” cries Lady Baker. “Oh, grandma! Don’t he though? And wasn’t there a row at the Star and Garter; and didn’t Pa pay uncle Clarence’s bill there, though?” “Silence, Popham. Little boys should be seen and not heard,” says Cissy. “Shouldn’t little boys be seen and not heard, Miss Prior?” “They shouldn’t insult their grandmothers. O my Cecilia—my Cecilia!” cries Lady Baker, lifting her hand. “You shan’t hit me! I say, you shan’t hit me!” roars Pop, starting back, and beginning to square at his enraged ancestress. The scene was growing painful. And there was that rascal of a Bedford choking with suppressed laughter at the sideboard. Bulkeley, her ladyship’s man, stood calm as fate; but young Buttons burst out in a guffaw; on which, I assure you, Lady Baker looked as savage as Lady Macbeth. “Am I to be insulted by my daughter’s servants?” cries Lady Baker. “I will leave the house this instant.” “At what hour will your ladyship have the barouche?” says Bedford, with perfect gravity. If Mr. Drencher had whipped out a lancet and bled Lady B. on the spot, he would have done her good. I shall draw the curtain over this sad—this humiliating scene. Drop, little curtain! on this absurd little act.