I arrived on a Saturday at half-an-hour before dinner:  a grave gentleman out of livery showed me to my room; a man in a chocolate coat and gold lace, with Brough’s crest on the buttons, brought me a silver shaving-pot of hot water on a silver tray; and a grand dinner was ready at six, at which I had the honour of appearing in Von Stiltz’s dress-coat and my new silk stockings and pumps.

Brough took me by the hand as I came in, and presented me to his lady, a stout fair-haired woman, in light blue satin; then to his daughter, a tall, thin, dark-eyed girl, with beetle-brows, looking very ill-natured, and about eighteen.

“Belinda my love,” said her papa, “this young gentleman is one of my clerks, who was at our ball.”

“Oh, indeed!” says Belinda, tossing up her head.

“But not a common clerk, Miss Belinda,—­so, if you please, we will have none of your aristocratic airs with him.  He is a nephew of the Countess of Drum; and I hope he will soon be very high in our establishment, and in the city of London.”

At the name of Countess (I had a dozen times rectified the error about our relationship), Miss Belinda made a low curtsey, and stared at me very hard, and said she would try and make the Rookery pleasant to any friend of Papa’s.  “We have not much monde to-day,” continued Miss Brough, “and are only in petit comite; but I hope before you leave us you will see some societe that will make your sejour agreeable.”

I saw at once that she was a fashionable girl, from her using the French language in this way.

“Isn’t she a fine girl?” said Brough, whispering to me, and evidently as proud of her as a man could be.  “Isn’t she a fine girl—­eh, you dog?  Do you see breeding like that in Somersetshire?”

“No, sir, upon my word!” answered I, rather slily; for I was thinking all the while how “Somebody” was a thousand times more beautiful, simple, and ladylike.

“And what has my dearest love been doing all day?” said her papa.

“Oh, Pa!  I have pinced the harp a little to Captain Fizgig’s flute.  Didn’t I, Captain Fizgig?”

Captain the Honourable Francis Fizgig said, “Yes, Brough, your fair daughter pinced the harp, and touched the piano, and egratigned the guitar, and ecorched a song or two; and we had the pleasure of a promenade a l’eau,—­of a walk upon the water.”

“Law, Captain!” cries Mrs. Brough, “walk on the water?”

“Hush, Mamma, you don’t understand French!” says Miss Belinda, with a sneer.

“It’s a sad disadvantage, madam,” says Fizgig, gravely; “and I recommend you and Brough here, who are coming out in the great world, to have some lessons; or at least get up a couple of dozen phrases, and introduce them into your conversation here and there.  I suppose, sir, you speak it commonly at the office, Mr. What you call it?” And Mr. Fizgig put his glass into his eye and looked at me.