She had just stolen a shape of blanc-mange, and thought she was caught.

‘Then show me where I’ll find pen and ink and paper,’ replied our friend.

‘Oh, sir, I don’t know nothin’ about them,’ replied the girl; ’indeed, sir, I don’t’; thinking it was some other petty larceny he was inquiring about.

‘Well, but you can tell me where to find a sheet of paper, surely?’ rejoined he.

‘Oh, indeed, sir, I can’t,’ replied she; ‘I know nothin’ about nothin’ of the sort.’  Servants never do.

‘What sort?’ asked Mr. Sponge, wondering at her vehemence.

‘Well, sir, about what you said,’ sobbed the girl, applying the corner of her dirty apron to her eyes.

‘Hang it, the girl’s mad,’ rejoined our friend, brushing by, and making for the passage beyond.  This brought him past the still-room, the steward’s room, the housekeeper’s room, and the butler’s pantry.  All were in most glorious confusion; in the latter, Captain Cutitfat’s lacquer-toed, lavender-coloured dress-boots were reposing in the silver soup tureen, and Captain Bouncey’s varnished pumps were stuffed into a wine-cooler.  The last detachment of empty bottles stood or lay about the floor, commingling with boot-jacks, knife-trays, bath-bricks, coat-brushes, candle-end boxes, plates, lanterns, lamp-glasses, oil bottles, corkscrews, wine-strainers—­the usual miscellaneous appendages of a butler’s pantry.  All was still and quiet; not a sound, save the loud ticking of a timepiece, or the occasional creak of a jarring door, disturbed the solemn silence of the house.  A nimble-handed mugger or tramp might have carried off whatever he liked.

Passing onward, Mr. Sponge came to a red-baized, brass-nailed door, which, opening freely on a patent spring, revealed the fine proportions of a light picture-gallery with which the bright mahogany doors of the entertaining rooms communicated.  Opening the first door he came to, our friend found himself in the elegant drawing-room, on whose round bird’s-eye-maple table, in the centre, were huddled all the unequal-lengthed candles of the previous night’s illumination.  It was a handsome apartment, fitted up in the most costly style; with rose-colour brocaded satin damask, the curtains trimmed with silk tassel fringe, and ornamented with massive bullion tassels on cornices, Cupids supporting wreaths under an arch, with open carved-work and enrichments in burnished gold.  The room, save the muster of the candles, was just as it had been left; and the richly gilt sofa still retained the indentations of the sitters, with the luxurious down pillows, left as they had been supporting their backs.

The room reeked of tobacco, and the ends and ashes of cigars dotted the tables and white marble chimney-piece, and the gilt slabs and the finely flowered Tournay carpet, just as the fires of gipsies dot and disfigure the fair face of a country.  Costly china and nick-nacks of all sorts were scattered about in profusion.  Altogether, it was a beautiful room.