“And who was that hidjus manster”—­that was the way her Ladyship pronounced,—­“that ojous vulgar wretch, with the iron heels to his boots, and the big mouth, and the imitation goold neck-chain, who steered at us so as we got into the carriage?”

How she should have known that Gus’s chain was mosaic I can’t tell; but so it was, and we had bought it for five-and-twenty and sixpence only the week before at M’Phail’s, in St. Paul’s Churchyard.  But I did not like to hear my friend abused, and so spoke out for him—­

“Ma’am,” says I, “that young gentleman’s name is Augustus Hoskins.  We live together; and a better or more kind-hearted fellow does not exist.”

“You are quite right to stand up for your friends, sir,” said the second lady; whose name, it appears, was Lady Jane, but whom the grandmamma called Lady Jene.

“Well, upon me conscience, so he is now, Lady Jene; and I like sper’t in a young man.  So his name is Hoskins, is it?  I know, my dears, all the Hoskinses in England.  There are the Lincolnshire Hoskinses, the Shropshire Hoskinses:  they say the Admiral’s daughter, Bell, was in love with a black footman, or boatswain, or some such thing; but the world’s so censorious.  There’s old Doctor Hoskins of Bath, who attended poor dear Drum in the quinsy; and poor dear old Fred Hoskins, the gouty General:  I remember him as thin as a lath in the year ’84, and as active as a harlequin, and in love with me—­oh, how he was in love with me!”

“You seem to have had a host of admirers in those days, Grandmamma?” said Lady Jane.

“Hundreds, my dear,—­hundreds of thousands.  I was the toast of Bath, and a great beauty, too:  would you ever have thought it now, upon your conscience and without flattery, Mr.-a-What-d’ye-call-’im?”

“Indeed, ma’am, I never should,” I answered, for the old lady was as ugly as possible; and at my saying this the two young ladies began screaming with laughter, and I saw the two great-whiskered footmen grinning over the back of the carriage.

“Upon my word, you’re mighty candid, Mr. What’s-your-name—­mighty candid indeed; but I like candour in young people.  But a beauty I was.  Just ask your friend’s uncle the General.  He’s one of the Lincolnshire Hoskinses—­I knew he was by the strong family likeness.  Is he the eldest son?  It’s a pretty property, though sadly encumbered; for old Sir George was the divvle of a man—­a friend of Hanbury Williams, and Lyttleton, and those horrid, monstrous, ojous people!  How much will he have now, mister, when the Admiral dies?”

“Why, ma’am, I can’t say; but the Admiral is not my friend’s father.”

“Not his father?—­but he is, I tell you, and I’m never wrong.  Who is his father, then?”

“Ma’am, Gus’s father’s a leatherseller in Skinner Street, Snow Hill,—­a very respectable house, ma’am.  But Gus is only third son, and so can’t expect a great share in the property.”