with a
sneer.

"It's a sad disadvantage, madam," says Fizgig, gravely; "and I recommend
you and Brough here, who are coming out in the great world, to have some
lessons; or at least get up a couple of dozen phrases, and introduce them
into your conversation here and there. I suppose, sir, you speak it
commonly at the office, Mr. What you call it?" And Mr. Fizgig put his
glass into his eye and looked at me.

"We speak English, sir," says I, "knowing it better than French."

"Everybody has not had your opportunities," Miss Brough, continued the
gentleman. "Everybody has not _voyage_ like _nous autres_, hey? _Mais
que voulez-vous_, my good sir? you must stick to your cursed ledgers and
things. What's the French for ledger, Miss Belinda?"

"How can you ask? _Je n'en scais rien_, I'm sure."

"You should learn, Miss Brough," said her father. "The daughter of a
British merchant need not be ashamed of the means by which her father
gets his bread. _I'm_ not ashamed--I'm not proud. Those who know John
Brough, know that ten years ago he was a poor clerk like my friend
Titmarsh here, and is now worth half-a-million. Is there any man in the
House better listened to than John Brough? Is there any duke in the land
that can give a better dinner than John Brough; or a larger fortune to
his daughter than John Brough? Why, sir, the humble person now speaking
to you could buy out many a German duke! But I'm not proud--no, no, not
proud. There's my daughter--look at her--when I die, she will be
mistress of my fortune; but am I proud? No! Let him who can win her,
marry her, that's what I say. Be it you, Mr. Fizgig, son of a peer of
the realm; or you, Bill Tidd. Be it a duke or a shoeblack, what do I
care, hey?--what do I care?"

"O-o-oh!" sighed the gent who went by the name of Bill Tidd: a very pale
young man, with a black riband round his neck instead of a handkerchief,
and his collars turned down like Lord Byron. He was leaning against the
mantelpiece, and with a pair of great green eyes ogling Miss Brough with
all his might.

"Oh, John--my dear John!" cried Mrs. Brough, seizing her husband's hand
and kissing it, "you are an angel, that you are!"

"Isabella, don't flatter me; I'm a _man_,--a plain downright citizen of
London, without a particle of pride, except in you and my daughter
here--my two Bells, as I call them! This is the way that we live,
Titmarsh my boy: ours is a happy, humble, Christian home, and