Mrs. Rouse laid no gentle hand upon her
wrist.

"Don't be a fool, but sit down there,
and listen to me. What are you crying out
for, afore you're hurt? Who's accusing
you? It's only a wholesome warning,
as you mayn't run again' a stone wall with
your eyes shut. There's a lot of men in
this house, and some on 'em wildish,
beginning with——Well, never mind, but
you look here; don't let any on 'em get
familiar with you, that's all. There's Mr.
Dapper, now, you treat him respectful, as
is his doo, but don't you let him be
familiar."

"I am not likely," said Maud, with
ineffable disdain.

"Hoighty-toighty! That's your style,
is it? But let me tell you I don't approve
of no airs, neither, young woman.
Servants can keep theirselves respectable
without that. And them as carry
theirselves too high can't always see where
they're walking, and tumble, maybe: I've
known it afore now. You ain't given to
sauce, I hope? Because, if there's that
thing I can't stand, it's sauce. The last
gurl as went away o' Toosday week 'd
never let you have the last word, if you
tried ever so. She wasn't here long. Now,
you come up with me to Mrs. Cartaret."

And, with that, she opened the door
wide, and marched on a-head, down a long
passage, and up a back-staircase, and again
along a passage, till she came to a door
which she opened, without knocking.

"Here is the young woman, ma'am—
shall she come in?"

"Yes, my good Rouse, by all means,"
replied a high voice, with a strong French
accent, which sounded as if it came from
under a feather bed.

Maud entered, and found herself in a
spacious room, across one half of which a
leather screen was drawn. Beyond this
stood a vast four-post bed, and in this bed
lay Mrs.Cartaret, having her breakfast,
propped by pillows, and surrounded with
books, newspapers, and letters, some upon
the floor, some upon a table near the bed,
some upon the bed itself. The same
"admired confusion" reigned throughout
the apartment, all the tables and drawers
being piled with bills and papers,
photographs, miniature-cases, and boxes of all
sizes and materials, from the leather
despatch-box and jewel-case down to the
carton of ribands, among which Mrs.
Rouse, no doubt, vainly did her best to introduce
some order. An engraving of Marie
Antoinette, in hoop and towering headgear,
hung over the mantelpiece, and opposite
the bed: another of the same unhappy
queen, taken at the Conciergerie, in the
attire of a "citoyenne" of the Republic,
all the pride and power of the face crushed
out of it, and in its place a saintly dignity,
was a little further on. A heavy-faced
woman with a row of rigid curls and a
turban, and a fat young man with a
Bourbon physiognomy, were respectively
labelled, in Mrs.Cartaret's hand, Son
Altesse Royale, La Duchesse d'Angoulême,
and Sa Majesté, Henri Cinq,
Roi de France. Various other French
ladies and gentlemen graced the walls,
among whom the deceased Cartaret, in the
dress of an English country gentleman,
looked rather out of place: as did also a
very modern-looking boy of sixteen upon a
pony, done in water-colours by a travelling
artist some eight years since, and esteemed
a very choice work of art.

The owner of these miscellaneous
treasures appeared to be a woman of sixty-five,
inclining to stoutness, and as far as Maud
could judge, below the middle height. A
black eye of extraordinary vivacity, a clear
dark skin, grey hair tossed back from her
face, and bright even teeth, which showed
much when she spoke—these were the
salient points a stranger would seize in
describing her appearance. If a man
sensitive to impressions, he would probably
go on to say that the features, though not
regular, possessed the charm of great
mobility; that the youthfulness of this old
face, the way in which it kindled with
enthusiasm, softened and clouded over with
sorrow, or flushed with scorn and anger,
was its chief attraction, and made it an
object of interest when younger and more
perfect faces were coldly admired and
forgotten.

This, at least, it was not easy to do;
Mrs. Cartaret was not a woman to forget.
Everything about her betrayed her foreign
extraction: the inflections of her voice, the
movement of her hands, the tasteful
arrangement of her old French dress. She
spoke tolerably idiomatic English (though
always with an accent), except at times,
when she was excited; and then, in the
heat of the moment, she would always
break out into some Gallicism, or literal
translation of the French thought which
flamed uppermost in her mind. Her
angers were very hot and strong, her
prejudices insurmountable; her vanity of a
certain kind was great, and her belief in