"A kerridge a-comin'," said Mr. Minnidick.
"What should a carriage a-come for?" rejoined the paragon.
Mr. Minnidick uttered his morning hymn, and stared across the hedge by way of reply, while Mr. Bush looked somewhat inclined to lie down again among the sprouts. He stood his ground, however, and was rewarded almost immediately by the appearance of a tub-like chaise chiefly constructed of basket-work, and drawn by a tottering white pony which was driven by a small boy with a very sharply-pointed nose, at whose side—in an attitude of large abandonment and intimate despair—was spread her Grace the Duchess of Southborough. On seeing the paragon, her Grace gave vent to a bass screech, and seizing the hands of the boy with the sharply-pointed nose—much to that individual's fury—compelled him to bring the white pony to against the hedge.
"Oh, Mr. Bush! Mr. Bush!" cried the Duchess.
"What's brought you a-here?" queried the paragon.
"Oh, Mr. Bush, you have ruined me! You have undone me, Mr. Bush!" continued the Duchess, on her most piercing lower notes.
"Get along with yer!" said Mr. Bush, while Mr. Minnidick, poised upon the favourite hoe in a gardening attitude, surveyed the dreadful scene.
"You have, indeed. But you must make reparation! You must and shall!"
And her Grace, who still wore the early Victorian dressing-gown, surmounted with a waterproof cloak, and crowned by a bonnet and feathers, began attempting to scramble over the hedge into the paragon's domain.
"What are yer up to now?" said Mr. Bush. "Where are yer a-makin' for?"