Two pretty young ladies turned two pretty pairs of black eyes at me, and waited for an answer:  which they would have had, only the old lady began rattling on a hundred stories about the thirteen ladies above named, and all their lovers, all their disappointments, and all the duels of Mick Hoggarty.  She was a chronicle of fifty-years-old scandal.  At last she was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing; at the conclusion of which Mr. Polonius very respectfully asked me where he should send the pin, and whether I would like the hair kept.

“No,” says I, “never mind the hair.”

“And the pin, sir?”

I had felt ashamed about telling my address:  “But, bang it!” thought I, “why should I?—­

   ’A king can make a belted knight,
      A marquess, duke, and a’ that;
   An honest man’s abune his might—­
      Gude faith, he canna fa’ that.’

Why need I care about telling these ladies where I live?”

“Sir,” says I, “have the goodness to send the parcel, when done, to Mr. Titmarsh, No. 3 Bell Lane, Salisbury Square, near St. Bride’s Church, Fleet Street.  Ring, if you please, the two-pair bell.”

“What, sir?” said Mr. Polonius.

“Hwat!” shrieked the old lady.  “Mr. Hwat?  Mais, ma chere, c’est impayable.  Come along—­here’s the carr’age!  Give me your arm, Mr. Hwat, and get inside, and tell me all about your thirteen aunts.”

She seized on my elbow and hobbled through the shop as fast as possible; the young ladies following her, laughing.

“Now, jump in, do you hear?” said she, poking her sharp nose out of the window.

“I can’t, ma’am,” says I; “I have a friend.”

“Pooh, pooh! send ’um to the juice, and jump in!” And before almost I could say a word, a great powdered fellow in yellow-plush breeches pushed me up the steps and banged the door to.

I looked just for one minute as the barouche drove away at Hoskins, and never shall forget his figure.  There stood Gus, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring, a smoking cheroot in his hand, wondering with all his might at the strange thing that had just happened to me.

“Who is that Titmarsh?” says Gus:  “there’s a coronet on the carriage, by Jingo!”

CHAPTER III

HOW THE POSSESSOR OF THE DIAMOND IS WHISKED INTO A MAGNIFICENT CHARIOT, AND HAS YET FURTHER GOOD LUCK

I sat on the back seat of the carriage, near a very nice young lady, about my dear Mary’s age—­that is to say, seventeen and three-quarters; and opposite us sat the old Countess and her other grand-daughter—­handsome too, but ten years older.  I recollect I had on that day my blue coat and brass buttons, nankeen trousers, a white sprig waist-coat, and one of Dando’s silk hats, that had just come in in the year ’22, and looked a great deal more glossy than the best beaver.