"Hush, my dear sir-nobody's fat or old in Ba-ath. That's the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph."
"Is it indeed?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"No less a person, I assure you," said the Master of the Ceremonies. "Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly dressed young man coming this way?"
"The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"The same. The richest young man in Ba—ath at this moment. Young Lord Mutanhed."
"You don't say so?" said Mr. Piokwick.
"Yes. You'll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He'll speak to me. The other gentleman with him, in the red under waistcoat and dark moustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my lord?"
"Veway hot, Bantam," said his lordship.
"It is very warm, my lord," replied the M.C.
"Confounded," assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.
"Have you seen his lordship's mail cart, Bantam?" inquired the Honourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord Mutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance, and Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his lordship could talk about best.
"Dear me, no," replied the M.C. "A mail cart! What an excellent idea. Re—markable!"
"Gwacious heavens!" said his lordship, "I thought evewebody had seen the new mail cart; it's the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever wan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald."
"With a real box for the letters, and all complete," said the Honourable Mr. Crushton.
"And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver," added his lordship. "I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a cwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and confound me if the
