“A shy! How can you use such vulgar words, Mr. Newcome? What have I to do with Sir Brian’s titled relations? I do not value nobility. I prefer people of science—people of intellect—to all the rank in the world.” “So you do,” says Hobson her spouse. “You have your party—Lady Anne has her party. You take your line—Lady Anne takes her line. You are a superior woman, my dear Polly; every one knows that. I’m a plain country farmer, I am. As long as you are happy, I am happy too. The people you get to dine here may talk Greek or algebra for what I care. By Jove, my dear, I think you can hold your own with the best of them.” “I have endeavoured by assiduity to make up for time lost, and an early imperfect education,” says Mrs. Newcome. “You married a poor country lawyer’s daughter. You did not seek a partner in the Peerage, Mr. Newcome.” “No, no. Not such a confounded flat as that,” cries Mr. Newcome, surveying his plump partner behind her silver teapot, with eyes of admiration. “I had an imperfect education, but I knew its blessings, and have, I trust, endeavoured to cultivate the humble talents which Heaven has given me, Mr. Newcome.” “Humble, by Jove!” exclaims the husband. “No gammon of that sort, Polly. You know well enough that you are a superior woman. I ain’t a superior man. I know that: one is enough in a family. I leave the reading to you, my dear. Here comes my horses. I say, I wish you’d call on Lady Anne to-day. Do go and see her, now that’s a good girl. I know she is flighty, and that; and Brian’s back is up a little. But he ain’t a bad fellow; and I wish I could see you and his wife better friends.” On his way to the City, Mr. Newcome rode to look at the new house, No. 120 Fitzroy Square, which his brother, the Colonel, had taken in conjunction with that Indian friend of his, Mr. Binnie. Shrewd old cock, Mr. Binnie. Has brought home a good bit of money from India. Is looking out for safe investments. Has been introduced to Newcome Brothers. Mr. Newcome thinks very well of the Colonel’s friend. The house is vast, but, it must be owned, melancholy. Not long since it was a ladies’ school, in an unprosperous condition. The scar left by Madame Latour’s brass plate may still be seen on the tall black door, cheerfully ornamented in the style of the end of the last century, with a funereal urn in the centre of the entry, and garlands, and the skulls of rams at each corner. Madame Latour, who at one time actually kept a large yellow coach, and drove her parlour young ladies in the Regent’s Park, was an exile from her native country (Islington was her birthplace, and Grigson her paternal name), and an outlaw at the suit of Samuel Sherrick: that Mr. Sherrick whose wine-vaults undermine Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel where the eloquent Honeyman preaches.