same terrible expression which I had formerly
remarked in it, and which made me tremble for Berry.

"My dear Angelica," though said he with some spirit, "Jack Butts isn't
a baggage-waggon, nor a Jack-of-all-trades; you make him paint pictures
for your women's albums, and look after your upholsterer, and your
canary-bird, and your milliners, and turn rusty because he forgets your
last message."

"I did not turn RUSTY, Frank, as you call it elegantly. I'm very much
obliged to Mr. Butts for performing my commissions--very much obliged.
And as for not paying for the pictures to which you so kindly allude,
Frank, _I_ should never have thought of offering payment for so paltry a
service; but I'm sure I shall be happy to pay if Mr. Butts will send me
in his bill."

"By Jove, Angelica, this is too much!" bounced out Berry; but the little
matrimonial squabble was abruptly ended, by Berry's French man flinging
open the door and announcing MILADI PASH and Doctor Dobus, which two
personages made their appearance.

The person of old Pash has been already parenthetically described. But
quite different from her dismal niece in temperament, she is as jolly an
old widow as ever wore weeds. She was attached somehow to the Court, and
has a multiplicity of stories about the princesses and the old King,
to which Mrs. Berry never fails to call your attention in her grave,
important way. Lady Pash has ridden many a time to the Windsor hounds;
she made her husband become a member of the Four-in-hand Club, and has
numberless stories about Sir Godfrey Webster, Sir John Lade, and the
old heroes of those times. She has lent a rouleau to Dick Sheridan,
and remembers Lord Byron when he was a sulky slim young lad. She says
Charles Fox was the pleasantest fellow she ever met with, and has not
the slightest objection to inform you that one of the princes was very
much in love with her. Yet somehow she is only fifty-two years old, and
I have never been able to understand her calculation. One day or other
before her eye went out, and before those pearly teeth of hers were
stuck to her gums by gold, she must have been a pretty-looking body
enough. Yet, in spite of the latter inconvenience, she eats and
drinks too much every day, and tosses off a glass of maraschino with a
trembling pudgy hand, every finger of which twinkles with a dozen, at
least, of old rings. She has a story about every one of those rings, and
a stupid one too. But there is always