Mrs. P. knew the house very well, and everything which it contained; and when Lady Baker drove off with her son and her suite of domestics, Prior dashed through the vacant apartments, gleaning what had been left in the flurry of departure—a scarlet feather out of the dowager’s room, a shirt stud and a bottle of hair-oil, the captain’s property. “And now they are gone, and as you can’t be alone with him, my dear, I must be with you,” says she, coming down to her daughter. “Of course, mamma, I must be with you,” says obedient Elizabeth. “And there is the pink room, and the blue room, and the yellow room for the boys—and the chintz boudoir for me—I can put them all away, oh, so comfortably!” “I can come and share Louisa’s room, mamma,” says Bessy. “It will not be proper for me to stay here at all—until afterwards, you know. Or I can go to my uncle at St. Boniface. Don’t you think that will be best, eh, Frederick?” “Whatever you wish, my dear Lizzy!” says Lovel. “And I daresay there will be some little alterations made in the house. You talked, you know, of painting, Mr. Lovel; and the children can go to their grandmamma Bonnington. And on our return when the alterations are made we shall always be delighted to see _you_, Mr. Batchelor—our kindest old friend. Shall we not, a—Frederick?” “Always, always,” said Frederick. “Come, children, come to your teas,” calls out Mrs. P., in a resolute voice. “Dear Pop, I’m not going away—that is, only for a few days, dear,” says Bessy, kissing the boy; “and you will love me, won’t you?” “All right,” says the boy. But Cissy said, when the same appeal was made to her: “I shall love my dear mamma!” and makes her new mother-in-law a very polite curtsey. “I think you had better put off those men you expect to dinner to-morrow, Fred?” I say to Lovel. “I think I had, Batch,” says the gentleman. “Or you can dine with them at the club, you know?” remarks Elizabeth. “Yes, Bessy.” “And when the children have had their tea I will go with mamma. My boxes are ready, you know,” says arch Bessy. “And you will stay, and dine with Mr. Lovel, won’t you, Mr. Batchelor?” asks the lady. It was the dreariest dinner I ever had in my life. No undertaker could be more gloomy than Bedford, as he served us. We tried to talk politics and literature. We drank too much, purposely. Nothing would do. “Hang me, if I can stand this, Lovel,” I said, as we sat mum over our third bottle. “I will go back, and sleep at my chambers. I was not a little soft upon her myself, that’s the truth. Here’s her health, and happiness to both of you, with all my heart.” And we drained a great bumper apiece, and I left him. He was very happy I should go. Bedford stood at the gate, as the little pony-carriage came for me in the dusk. “God bless you, sir,” says he. “I can’t stand it; I shall go too.” And he rubbed his hands over his eyes.