“I 'm not come for money, though a trifle would be welcome,” said the mother, when Nelly had shown her the way into one of the rooms opening off a corridor at one side of the hall--a large apartment, furnished with ludicrous incongruity. A lovely settee, made by the greatest artist in France, and upholstered in bright tapestry, was flanked by a couple of hideous chairs made by the stage carpenter of Drury Lane, and by him presented to Nelly. A pair of Sèvres vases, which had for some years been in St. James's Palace stood on a side-board among some rubbish of porcelain that Nelly had picked up in the purlieus of Westminster. The mother was about to seat herself heavily on the gilded settee, when Nelly gave a little scream, startling the elder lady so that she, too, screamed--a little hoarsely--in sympathy. “What's the matter, girl--what's the matter?” she cried. “Nothing is the matter, so far, mother, but a mighty deal would have been the matter, if you had seated yourself other where than in that chair.'Snails, madam, who are you that you should plump your person down on a seat that was made for a legitimate monarch?” “I'm a legitimate wife, hear you that, you perky wench?” cried the mother, craning her neck forward after the most approved fashion of pending belligerents at Lewkinor Street, Drury Lane. “The greater reason you should avoid that settee, dear mother; it has never been other than the chattel of a prince,” laughed Nelly. “And now, prithee, why the honour of this visit, while the month is not yet near its close?” “I have met with an old friend of yours, this day, Nell,” said the mother, “and he is coming hither,--'t is that hath brought me.” “An old friend! I' faith, good mother, 't is the young friends are more to my taste. The savour of Lewkinor Street doth not smell sweet, and it clings most foully to all our old friends.” “Oh, ay, but you once was n't so dainty a madam!” “'T were vain to deny it, mother, since it can be urged against me that I became your daughter. No, no, good mother, friend me no old friends--I like them new--the newer the better--plenty of gilding--none of it rubbed off--gingerbread and courtiers--plenty of gilding, and plenty of spice beneath. But the old life in Lewkinor Street--in the coal-yard--ah! 't was like to sour oranges, mother, thick skin above, and sourness under. 'Snails! it doth set my teeth on edge to think of it.” “Oh, ay; but now and again we lighted upon a Levant orange in the midst of a basketful--a sweet one to suck, and one to leave a sweet taste behind it.” “The best were mightily improved by the addition of a lump of sugar. But what hath all this vegetable philosophy to do with your visit to me to-day? If you mean to stay, I'll send out for a couple of stone of sugar without delay!” “Philosophy, Madame Impudence! You accuse your mother of philosophy, when everyone knows that your own language was--”