of stair-carpet to Grandmamma's withdrawing-room.
Mary preceded No. 88 Grosvenor Square, potato, bone-hafted knife, sacking-cloth apron and all, into the stately presence of the cap-with-lace-which-had-been-worn-by-Siddons.
"Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth, Granny."
The Bad Girl turned and fled; very nearly impaled herself on the bone-hafted knife by counting fourteen stairs instead of thirteen, and continuing her course headlong until she fell howling into the arms of Cook. But in Edward Bean's goddaughter's withdrawing-room it was no laughing matter, my lords and gentlemen, we feel bound to tell you that. And we are forced to agree, though very reluctantly, with what Grandmamma said privately to the Bad Girl afterwards, which was that she would be none the worse for a good whipping.
"Mrs. Cathcart, I presume?" said No. 88 Grosvenor Square, very bland and splendid, although the tones had no need to be so icy—they hadn't, really.
"You have the advantage of me," said the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall, offering her venerable hand to the angle of 1851, the Exhibition Year. "Ah, yes, Lady Shelmerdine—delighted to make your acquaintance."
What of the Braided Morning Coat, you ask, while all this was toward? Perspiring freely in every pore
