it's the Sherrick with whom Kew and Jack
Belsize had that ugly row?"

"What ugly row?--don't say ugly row. It is not a nice word to hear the
children use. Go on, my darlings. What was the dispute of Lord Kew and
Mr. Belsize, and this Mr. Sherrick?"

"It was all about pictures, and about horses, and about money, and about
one other subject which enters into every row that I ever heard of."

"And what is that, dear?" asks the innocent lady, hanging on her
husband's arm, and quite pleased to have led him to church and brought
him thence. "And what is it, that enters into every row, as you call it,
Charles?"

"A woman, my love," answers the gentleman, behind whom we have been in
imagination walking out from Charles Honeyman's church on a Sunday in
June: as the whole pavement blooms with artificial flowers and fresh
bonnets; as there is a buzz and cackle all around regarding the sermon;
as carriages drive off; as lady-dowagers walk home; as prayer-books and
footmen's sticks gleam in the sun; as little boys with baked mutton and
potatoes pass from the courts; as children issue from the public-houses
with pots of beer; as the Reverend Charles Honeyman, who has been
drawing tears in the sermon, and has seen, not without complacent
throbs, a Secretary of State in the pew beneath him, divests himself
of his rich silk cassock in the vestry, before he walks away to his
neighbouring hermitage--where have we placed it?--in Walpole Street. I
wish St. Pedro of Alcantara could have some of that shoulder of mutton
with the baked potatoes, and a drink of that frothing beer. See, yonder
trots little Lord Dozeley, who has been asleep for an hour with his head
against the wood, like St. Pedro of Alcantara.

An East Indian gentleman and his son wait until the whole chapel is
clear, and survey Lady Whittlesea's monument at their leisure, and other
hideous slabs erected in memory of defunct frequenters of the chapel.
Whose was that face which Colonel Newcome thought he recognised--that of
a stout man who came down from the organ-gallery? Could it be Broff the
bass singer, who delivered the "Red Cross Knight" with such applause at
the Cave of Melody, and who has been singing in this place? There are
some chapels in London, where, the function over, one almost expects to
see the sextons put brown hollands over the pews and galleries, as they
do at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.

The writer of these veracious pages was once walking throu