“For shame, before the young lady!” said Mr. Beatson, holding the hackney-coachman: “have done disputing so loud.”
“I’ve done, but she is wrong,” cried Terence.
“I’ve done, put he is wrong,” said Betty.
Terence was so much provoked by the Welshwoman, that he declared he would not carry her a step further in his coach—that his beasts were tired, and that he must be paid his fare, for that he neither could nor would wait any longer. Betty Williams was desired by Angelina to pay him. She hesitated; but after being assured by Miss Warwick that the debt should be punctually discharged in a few hours, she acknowledged that she had silver enough “in a little box at the bottom of her pocket;” and, after much fumbling, she pulled out a snuff-box, which, she said, had been given to her by her “creat crandmother.”—Whilst she was paying the coachman, the printer’s devil observed one end of a piece of lace hanging out of her pocket; she had, by accident, pulled it out along with the snuff-box.
“And was this your great grandmother’s too?” said the printer’s devil, taking hold of the lace.
Betty started. Angelina was busy, making inquiries from the printer, and she did not see or hear what was passing close to her: the coachman was intent upon the examination of his shillings. Betty, with great assurance, reproved the printer’s devil for touching such lace with his plack fingers.
“‘Twas not my Grandmother’s—‘tis the young lady’s,” said she: “let it pe, pray—look how you have placked it, and marked it, with plack fingers.”
She put the stolen lace hastily into her pocket, and immediately went out, as Miss Warwick desired, to call another coach.
Before we follow our heroine to Mrs. Bertrand’s, we must beg leave to go, and, if we can, to transport our readers with us, to Lady Frances Somerset’s house, at Clifton.