shot so fast as to
call for more pruning."

Before I had time to thank the good doctor for his interesting little
narrative, a loud rap announced company. It was Lady Bab Lawless. With
her usual versatility she plunged at once into every subject with every
body. She talked to Lady Belfield of the news and her nursery, of poetry
with Sir John, of politics with me, and religion with Dr. Barlow. She
talked well upon most of these points, and not ill upon any of them; for
she had the talent of embellishing subjects of which she knew but
little, and a kind of conjectural sagacity and rash dexterity, which
prevented her from appearing ignorant, even when she knew nothing. She
thought that a full confidence in her own powers was the sure way to
raise them in the estimation of others, and it generally succeeded.

Turning suddenly to Lady Belfield, she said, "Pray my dear, look at my
flowers." "They are beautiful roses, indeed," said Lady Belfield, "and
as exquisitely exact as if they were artificial." "Which in truth they
are," replied Lady Bab. "Your mistake is a high compliment to them, but
not higher than they deserve. Look especially at these roses in my cap.
You positively shall go and get some at the same place." "Indeed," said
Lady Belfield, "I am thinking of laying aside flowers, though my
children are hardly old enough to take them." "What affectation!"
replied Lady Bab, "why you are not above two or three and thirty; I am
almost as old again, and yet I don't think of giving up flowers to my
children, or my grandchildren, who will be soon wanting them. Indeed, I
only now wear _white_ roses." I discovered by this, that white roses
made the same approximation to sobriety in dress, that three tables made
to it in cards. "Seriously, though," continued Lady Bab, "you must and
shall go and buy some of Fanny's flowers. I need only tell you, it will
be the greatest charity you ever did, and then I know you won't rest
till you have been. A beautiful girl maintains her dying mother by
making and selling flowers. Here is her direction," throwing a card on
the table. "Oh no, this is not it. I have forgot the name, but it is
within two doors of your hair-dresser, in what d'ye call the lane, just
out of Oxford-street. It is a poor miserable hole, but her roses are as
bright as if they grew in the gardens of Armida." She now rung the bell
violently, saying she had overstaid her time, though she had not been in
the house ten minutes