“We speak English, sir,” says I, “knowing it better than French.”

“Everybody has not had your opportunities,” Miss Brough, continued the gentleman.  “Everybody has not voyage like nous autres, hey? Mais que voulez-vous, my good sir? you must stick to your cursed ledgers and things.  What’s the French for ledger, Miss Belinda?”

“How can you ask? Je n’en scais rien, I’m sure.”

“You should learn, Miss Brough,” said her father.  “The daughter of a British merchant need not be ashamed of the means by which her father gets his bread. I’m not ashamed—­I’m not proud.  Those who know John Brough, know that ten years ago he was a poor clerk like my friend Titmarsh here, and is now worth half-a-million.  Is there any man in the House better listened to than John Brough?  Is there any duke in the land that can give a better dinner than John Brough; or a larger fortune to his daughter than John Brough?  Why, sir, the humble person now speaking to you could buy out many a German duke!  But I’m not proud—­no, no, not proud.  There’s my daughter—­look at her—­when I die, she will be mistress of my fortune; but am I proud?  No!  Let him who can win her, marry her, that’s what I say.  Be it you, Mr. Fizgig, son of a peer of the realm; or you, Bill Tidd.  Be it a duke or a shoeblack, what do I care, hey?—­what do I care?”

“O-o-oh!” sighed the gent who went by the name of Bill Tidd:  a very pale young man, with a black riband round his neck instead of a handkerchief, and his collars turned down like Lord Byron.  He was leaning against the mantelpiece, and with a pair of great green eyes ogling Miss Brough with all his might.

“Oh, John—­my dear John!” cried Mrs. Brough, seizing her husband’s hand and kissing it, “you are an angel, that you are!”

“Isabella, don’t flatter me; I’m a man,—­a plain downright citizen of London, without a particle of pride, except in you and my daughter here—­my two Bells, as I call them!  This is the way that we live, Titmarsh my boy:  ours is a happy, humble, Christian home, and that’s all.  Isabella, leave go my hand!”

“Mamma, you mustn’t do so before company; it’s odious!” shrieked Miss B.; and Mamma quietly let the hand fall, and heaved from her ample bosom a great large sigh.  I felt a liking for that simple woman, and a respect for Brough too.  He couldn’t be a bad man, whose wife loved him so.

Dinner was soon announced, and I had the honour of leading in Miss B., who looked back rather angrily, I thought, at Captain Fizgig, because that gentleman had offered his arm to Mrs. Brough.  He sat on the right of Mrs. Brough, and Miss flounced down on the seat next to him, leaving me and Mr. Tidd to take our places at the opposite side of the table.

At dinner there was turbot and soup first, and boiled turkey afterwards of course.  How is it that at all the great dinners they have this perpetual boiled turkey?  It was real turtle-soup:  the first time I had ever tasted it; and I remarked how Mrs. B., who insisted on helping it, gave all the green lumps of fat to her husband, and put several slices of the breast of the bird under the body, until it came to his turn to be helped.