ugh
to trudge alongside so fine a Whitsuntide show as you are. That's two
of 'em."

"Of what, Aunt?" said Aubrey, feeling about as unhappy as a mixture of
humiliation and apprehension could make him. If they were to meet one
of Lord Oxford's gentlemen, or one of his wealthy acquaintances, he felt
as though he should want the earth to open and swallow him.

"Suits, Gentleman," was the reply. "Blue and white the first; crimson
and silver the second. Haven't seen the green and gold yet, nor the
yellow, nor purple. Suppose they're in the wardrobe. Rather early
times, to be thus bedizened, or seems so to working folks--the Abbey
clock went eight but a few minutes since. But quality is donned early,
I know."

As Mistress Temperance emitted this tingling small-shot of words, she
was marching with some rapidity up Old Palace Yard and the Abbey Close,
her magnificent nephew keeping pace with her, right sore against his
will. At last Aubrey could bear no longer. The windows of the Golden
Fish were in sight, and his soul was perturbed by a vision of the fair
Dorothy, who might be looking out, and whose eyes might light on the
jewel of himself in this extremely incongruous setting of Aunt
Temperance and the fish-tails.

"Aunt Temperance, couldn't--" Aubrey's words did not come so readily as
usual, that morning.

"Couldn't I walk slower?" suggested the aggravating person who was the
cause of his misery. "Well, belike I could.--There's Mrs Gertrude up
at the window yonder--without 'tis Mrs Dorothy.--There's no hurry in
especial, only I hate to waste time."

And suiting the action to the word, Aunt Temperance checked her steps,
so as to give the young lady, whether it were Gertrude or Dorothy, a
more leisurely view of the fish-tails.

"Couldn't Rachel go marketing instead of you?" sputtered out Aubrey.

"Rachel has her own work; and so has Charity. And so have I, Mr
Louvaine. I suppose you haven't, as you seem to be gallivanting about
Westminster in crimson and silver at eight o'clock of a morning. Now
then--"

"Aunt, 'tis not my turn this morrow to wait on my Lord's _lever_. I
shall be at his _coucher_ this even."

"You may open the door, my master, if it demean not so fine a
gentleman.--Good maid! Take my basket, Rachel. The fish for dinner,
and the chicken for to-morrow."

"There's nobut four whitings here, Mistress: shouldn't there be five?"

"Hush thee, good maid. They're twopence apiece."

"Eh,