e delight
and admiration of all the readers thereof. Kate's picture, too, would be
in at least half-a-dozen of the annuals, and on the opposite page would
appear, in delicate type, 'Lines on contemplating the Portrait of Lady
Mulberry Hawk. By Sir Dingleby Dabber.' Perhaps some one annual, of more
comprehensive design than its fellows, might even contain a portrait
of the mother of Lady Mulberry Hawk, with lines by the father of Sir
Dingleby Dabber. More unlikely things had come to pass. Less interesting
portraits had appeared. As this thought occurred to the good lady, her
countenance unconsciously assumed that compound expression of simpering
and sleepiness which, being common to all such portraits, is perhaps one
reason why they are always so charming and agreeable.

With such triumphs of aerial architecture did Mrs Nickleby occupy
the whole evening after her accidental introduction to Ralph's titled
friends; and dreams, no less prophetic and equally promising, haunted
her sleep that night. She was preparing for her frugal dinner next day,
still occupied with the same ideas--a little softened down perhaps by
sleep and daylight--when the girl who attended her, partly for company,
and partly to assist in the household affairs, rushed into the room in
unwonted agitation, and announced that two gentlemen were waiting in the
passage for permission to walk upstairs.

'Bless my heart!' cried Mrs Nickleby, hastily arranging her cap and
front, 'if it should be--dear me, standing in the passage all this
time--why don't you go and ask them to walk up, you stupid thing?'

While the girl was gone on this errand, Mrs Nickleby hastily swept into
a cupboard all vestiges of eating and drinking; which she had scarcely
done, and seated herself with looks as collected as she could assume,
when two gentlemen, both perfect strangers, presented themselves.

'How do you DO?' said one gentleman, laying great stress on the last
word of the inquiry.

'HOW do you do?' said the other gentleman, altering the emphasis, as if
to give variety to the salutation.

Mrs Nickleby curtseyed and smiled, and curtseyed again, and remarked,
rubbing her hands as she did so, that she hadn't the--really--the honour
to--

'To know us,' said the first gentleman. 'The loss has been ours, Mrs
Nickleby. Has the loss been ours, Pyke?'

'It has, Pluck,' answered the other gentleman.

'We have regretted it very often, I believe, Pyke?' said the first
gentlema