"They'm beaent gone sick mad for love of 'ee, do 'ee think, Ma'am?" "Flatterer," sighed Mrs. Courteen. "No, child, they have probably been converted. I detect Methodism in their madness. Te-hee! I must keep that for Archdeacon Conybeare, who so dislikes extremes of sensibility in anything that pertains to so sacred a thing as religion. Ah, dear! Religion, what is it?" "There's many ways of it ma'am, I do think. 'Tis true religious not to laugh when the lads tickle thy ankles wi' straws during the prayer for Good King George!" "Tut-tut, how disloyal!" Just then the raucous voice of one of the itinerant booksellers shouted "Curtain Polls severely lashed by a Curtain-Rod." "Run, Betty, and inquire the price at once," cried Mrs. Courteen perceiving that this was the cause of the gentlemen's delay. "'Tis evidently a rumour on the best authority about the Day of Judgment." Presently Betty returned. "'Tis a book, ma'am." "I know that, simpleton, how much?" "Four shillings and sixpence, ma'am, for a little mimsy book not so thick as the magick history of Jack the Giant Killer." "But what was inside, foolish one?" "Oh, 'twas full of stars, ma'am." "'Tis certainly a work on fortune-telling. Pray buy it instantly, here is the money." Back came Betty with the volume, and presently Mrs. Courteen fainted. Downstairs ran Betty, and upstairs walked Mr. Thomas and Betty. "'Twas the book as done it," said the latter vehemently. The offending volume lay face downwards upon the quilted apricock of Mrs. Courteen's lap, so Thomas picked it up and began to read: "_At the Wells many elegant widows are seen, But no one so modish as Mrs. C******n, Her hoop_----" So far he read, but, rubicund though he was, modesty was still able to deepen his colour. "Yes," said Betty, "pray do 'ee read us some more, Mr. Thomas." "What Jebusite wrote this book? I will smite him and all his works," replied Thomas, flinging the volume into the fire. Whether the odour of burning leather or the profuse drops of Sal Volatile revived the offended lady I do not know, but she instantly sat up and, in a voice tremulous with anxiety, bade her footman call a chair. "For," said she, "I must pay a visit of condolence to my Lady Bunbutter, whose propriety has suffered an almost irreparable injury." She did not stay to change her dress; she passed her suitors still quoting scurrility, one against the other in the wind and rain, without a smile of recognition or sympathy. Outside my Lady Bunbutter's stood a row of sedan-chairs, and as Mrs. Courteen walked up my Lady Bunbutter's front door-step, the knot of chairmen packed more closely over a copy of _Curtain Polls_ indiscreetly left behind by one of their fares. There was a rustle of pages quickly turned by dirty thumbs, and as Mrs. Courteen was ushered in by my Lady Bunbutter's claret-coloured footman, there followed her upstairs a burst of ribald laughter.