le understood, and talked to Madame Duvet to withdraw
attention from her.

As to Howel, his rising sun was obscured--his blushing honours were
dimmed--his majesty, patronage, grandeur were lowered by the propinquity
of his nearest of kin. In the midst of his county friends himself, he
still felt that his mother was making herself ridiculous near at hand;
whilst complimented and thanked for his patriotic support of native
_cos_,[Footnote: Nightingales.] the native idioms rang in his ears, and
he longed to annihilate them altogether. This on his right hand. On his
left, Netta, looking literally like 'a rose in June,' and receiving the
very marked attentions of Captain Dancy, on one side, and of Mr Rice
Rice, junior, on the other. He scarcely knew which was most irritating,
'the idioms,' or her affected giggle. Trite but true is the proverb,
'There is no rose without its thorn;' and Howel was pricked severely by
the thorns surrounding the rose of his first step into popularity.

Between the acts, and between the songs, Mrs Griffey went on something
in this sort,--

'Indeet yes, sir! treue for you there. The Welsh is a splendit language.
My son Howels--there he is to be proving it--do always say so. Ah!
that's "The rising of the lark," I was singing that myself years ago.
London! to be seure! Now there was singing I was hearing at the play. My
son Howels did tak us to the play. I never was hearing or seeing the
like in my life. Seure, the Queen Victoria or Prince Albert don't be
dressing half as fine as the gentlemen and ladies I was seeing act. The
Queen! Oh, Mrs Rice Rice, fach! Ma'am, I was disappointed! Just a bonnet
no better than my doater-in-law's. What, sir! a crown? Not 'sactly a
crown; but I was 'specting to see a queen different from other people.
Hush! I do hear my son Howels cry, "Silence!" and they do be playing "Ap
Shenkin." Not so bad that for Wales, Mrs Rice Rice. My son Howels do
sing beautiful himself, and do play--Hush! look you at him. He don't
like tolking in the music. He, he, he, sir! you do make me laugh. To be
seure I don't mean to be marrying again, though men are so much for
money. I am thinking you gentlemen 'ould be marrying your grandmothers
for the beauty money! Not my son Howels, indeet! He don't be wanting
money. He marry his cousin for love. Hush you! There's Pengoch beginning
a Penyll! You don't be hearing anything like that in England. Ach a fi!
my 'deet, I am sorry. "God save the Quee