“Charmée de vous voir, Madame Tom-bulle. Vous vous portez bien; n’est-ce pas?”
“Ve,” replied Mrs Turnbull, who thus exhausted her knowledge of the French language while the Monsieur tried in vain, first on one side, and then on the other, to get from under the lee of his wife and make his bow. This was not accomplished until the lady had taken possession of a sofa, which she filled most comfortably.
Who these people were, and how they lived, I never could find out: they came in a fly from Brentford.
Another announcement. “My Lord Babbleton and Mr Smith coming up.”
“Mr T, pray go down and receive his lordship. (There are two wax candles for you to light on the hall table, and you must walk up with them before his lordship,” said the lady aside.)
“I’ll be hanged if I do,” replied Mr Turnbull; “let the servants light him.”
“O, Mr T, I’ve such an ’eadache?”
“So you may have,” replied Mr T, sitting down doggedly.
In the meantime Mr Smith entered, leading Lord Babbleton, a boy of twelve or thirteen years old, shy, awkward, red-haired, and ugly, to whom Mr Smith was tutor. Mrs T had found out Mr Smith, who was residing near Brentford with his charge, and made his acquaintance on purpose to have a lord on her visiting list, and, to her delight, the leader had not forgotten to bring his bear with him. Mrs Turnbull sprang to the door to receive them, making a prepared courtesy to the aristocratical cub, and then shaking him respectfully by the hand. “Won’t your lordship walk to the fire? Isn’t your lordship cold? I hope your lordship’s sty is better in your lordship’s eye. Allow me to introduce to your lordship’s notice Mr and Mrs Peters—Madame and Mounsheer Tagleebue—Mr and Mrs Drummond, the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Babbleton.” As for Mr Turnbull and myself, we were left out as unworthy of introduction. “We are ready for dinner, Mr Turnbull.”
“Snobbs, get dinner dressed up,” said Mr T to the butler.