A sound of horses’ hoofs and carriage wheels aroused the nodding alderman, and drew him hastily to the window. He beheld a carriage and pair of the most brilliant lustre drawing up in front of his door, and a woman of stately presence looking out, while a liveried footman ascended the steps and rang the bell. The excited master of the house could scarcely refrain from bursting out into the hall, to anticipate the lagging motions of the housemaid. At last that young female, having arranged her cap to her satisfaction, could be heard flouncing past the dining-room door. A short colloquy followed, and the occupant of the carriage emerged, attended by a fashionably dressed gentleman, and entered the house. There was a sound of doors opening and shutting. Finally, the housemaid came to her impatient master.
“A lady by the name of Seven, and a gentleman, to see you, sir.”
“Seven?” The alderman reflected for a moment, and then his eye fell on a card of invitation which had occupied a prominent place on the mantel-piece and in his thoughts for several days past. “You mean Lady Severn,” he cried out—“the Marchioness of Severn!”
“Yes, sir; ‘Lady Severn’ was what she said, sir.”
The alderman cast a glance of despair at his trousers.
“Run and get me the clothes-brush. No—I must change—there isn’t time! Here, run up-stairs and get me my Sunday coat, while I brush these things.”
The marchioness and her companion, seated in the drawing-room, were aware of a commotion outside.
“I am afraid we have thrown the establishment into confusion,” the gentleman remarked.
“These sort of people always lose their heads if any one comes to see them unexpectedly,” the marchioness responded. “I suppose they never visit each other; their houses are too small.”
“Probably it is because they would only bore each other to death if they did. No one in the middle classes ever breaks the moral law, I understand, and so they have nothing interesting to talk about.”