ittle house, the last in Pocklington Square, was lately
occupied by a young widow lady who wore a pink bonnet, a short silk
dress, sustained by a crinoline, and a light blue mantle, or over-jacket
(Miss C. is not here to tell me the name of the garment); or else a
black velvet pelisse, a yellow shawl, and a white bonnet; or else--but
never mind the dress, which seemed to be of the handsomest sort money
could buy--and who had very long glossy black ringlets, and a peculiarly
brilliant complexion,--No. 96, Pocklington Square, I say, was lately
occupied by a widow lady named Mrs. Stafford Molyneux.

The very first day on which an intimate and valued female friend of mine
saw Mrs. Stafford Molyneux stepping into a brougham, with a splendid bay
horse, and without a footman, (mark, if you please, that delicate sign
of respectability,) and after a moment's examination of Mrs. S. M.'s
toilette, her manners, little dog, carnation-colored parasol, &c., Miss
Elizabeth Clapperclaw clapped to the opera-glass with which she had been
regarding the new inhabitant of Our Street, came away from the window
in a great flurry, and began poking her fire in a fit of virtuous
indignation.

"She's very pretty," said I, who had been looking over Miss C.'s
shoulder at the widow with the flashing eyes and drooping ringlets.

"Hold your tongue, sir," said Miss Clapperclaw, tossing up her virgin
head with an indignant blush on her nose. "It's a sin and a shame that
such a creature should be riding in her carriage, forsooth, when honest
people must go on foot."

Subsequent observations confirmed my revered fellow-lodger's anger and
opinion. We have watched Hansom cabs standing before that lady's house
for hours; we have seen broughams, with great flaring eyes,
keeping watch there in the darkness; we have seen the vans from the
comestible-shops drive up and discharge loads of wines, groceries,
French plums, and other articles of luxurious horror. We have seen Count
Wowski's drag, Lord Martingale's carriage, Mr. Deuceace's cab drive up
there time after time; and (having remarked previously the pastry-cook's
men arrive with the trays and entrees), we have known that this widow
was giving dinners at the little house in Pocklington Square--dinners
such as decent people could not hope to enjoy.

My excellent friend has been in a perfect fury when Mrs. Stafford
Molyneux, in a black velvet riding-habit, with a hat and feather, has
come out and mounted a