"What can you mean to say? What do you kneel and cry for, in that unnatural way, like a pair of tragedy queens?"
"Because, mamma, we—"
"We were there—pray, pray forgive us—we went to the wedding."
"Went to the wedding in your pink ginghams?" screamed Lady Anne.
"Oh! no, dear mamma, we dressed in the same things exactly which were given us for Isabella's bridal—surely we did right to appear as your daughters and Mrs. Glentworth's sisters ought to do?" sobbed Georgiana.
"You did very wrong in the whole affair; but, pray, rise, I hate a scene—my nerves are overwrought with these detestable newspapers—not but the last is very tolerably made up—the Palmers of Nayburgh Hall, in Yorkshire, are an ancient and highly respectable family; so are the Gooches, in Suffolk and Gloucester—so far it is fortunate that no vulgar names appear, save that of the church, and within half a century there were two ducal seats in that parish."
"Yes, mamma, and Milton and Marvel were both buried there," cried Helen, in a consolatory voice.
"At least the latter was," observed Georgiana.
"The place could not be made endurable by fifty such people, much less two—both poets and both radicals—no, no, the stain is indelible; but, where
