my
constant entreaties and--'

'Dear mama,' said Kate, in a low voice.

'My dear Kate, if you will allow me to speak,' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I
shall take the liberty of explaining to this lady--'

'I think it is almost unnecessary, mama.'

And notwithstanding all the frowns and winks with which Mrs Nickleby
intimated that she was going to say something which would clench the
business at once, Kate maintained her point by an expressive look, and
for once Mrs Nickleby was stopped upon the very brink of an oration.

'What are your accomplishments?' asked Mrs Wititterly, with her eyes
shut.

Kate blushed as she mentioned her principal acquirements, and Mrs
Nickleby checked them all off, one by one, on her fingers; having
calculated the number before she came out. Luckily the two calculations
agreed, so Mrs Nickleby had no excuse for talking.

'You are a good temper?' asked Mrs Wititterly, opening her eyes for an
instant, and shutting them again.

'I hope so,' rejoined Kate.

'And have a highly respectable reference for everything, have you?'

Kate replied that she had, and laid her uncle's card upon the table.

'Have the goodness to draw your chair a little nearer, and let me look
at you,' said Mrs Wititterly; 'I am so very nearsighted that I can't
quite discern your features.'

Kate complied, though not without some embarrassment, with this request,
and Mrs Wititterly took a languid survey of her countenance, which
lasted some two or three minutes.

'I like your appearance,' said that lady, ringing a little bell.
'Alphonse, request your master to come here.'

The page disappeared on this errand, and after a short interval, during
which not a word was spoken on either side, opened the door for an
important gentleman of about eight-and-thirty, of rather plebeian
countenance, and with a very light head of hair, who leant over Mrs
Wititterly for a little time, and conversed with her in whispers.

'Oh!' he said, turning round, 'yes. This is a most important matter. Mrs
Wititterly is of a very excitable nature; very delicate, very fragile; a
hothouse plant, an exotic.'

'Oh! Henry, my dear,' interposed Mrs Wititterly.

'You are, my love, you know you are; one breath--' said Mr W., blowing
an imaginary feather away. 'Pho! you're gone!'

The lady sighed.

'Your soul is too large for your body,' said Mr Wititterly. 'Your
intellect wears you out; all the medical men say so; you know that there
is not a physic