colours.

'From Sir Mulberry,' replied Pyke. 'You must be very dull here.'

'Rather dull, I confess,' said Mrs Nickleby.

'We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand
entreaties that you'll take a seat in a private box at the play
tonight,' said Mr Pluck.

'Oh dear!' said Mrs Nickleby, 'I never go out at all, never.'

'And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs Nickleby, why you should go
out tonight,' retorted Mr Pluck. 'Pyke, entreat Mrs Nickleby.'

'Oh, pray do,' said Pyke.

'You positively must,' urged Pluck.

'You are very kind,' said Mrs Nickleby, hesitating; 'but--'

'There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs Nickleby,' remonstrated Mr
Pluck; 'not such a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law joins us,
Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us--a refusal
is out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you--twenty
minutes before seven to the moment--you'll not be so cruel as to
disappoint the whole party, Mrs Nickleby?'

'You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say,' replied
the worthy lady.

'Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam,' urged Mr Pluck.
'Mrs Nickleby,' said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice,
'there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence
in what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard
it--such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs Nickleby--he'd have
me out before dinner-time.'

Mrs Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had
walked to the window; and Mr Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on:

'Your daughter has made a conquest--a conquest on which I may
congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her
devoted slave. Hem!'

'Hah!' cried Mr Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the
chimney-piece with a theatrical air. 'What is this! what do I behold!'

'What DO you behold, my dear fellow?' asked Mr Pluck.

'It is the face, the countenance, the expression,' cried Mr Pyke,
falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; 'feebly
portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still THE face, THE countenance, THE
expression.'

'I recognise it at this distance!' exclaimed Mr Pluck in a fit of
enthusiasm. 'Is it not, my dear madam, the faint similitude of--'

'It is my daughter's portrait,' said Mrs Nickleby, with great pride. And
so it was. And little Miss La Creevy had brought it home for inspection
only