one in particular, ejaculated, as if in
scorn of Lady Penelope's geography--

"Polynices?--Polly Peachum.--There is no such place in the Thebais--the
Thebais is in Egypt--the mummies come from the Thebais--I have been in
the catacombs--caves very curious indeed--we were lapidated by the
natives--pebbled to some purpose, I give you my word. My janizary
thrashed a whole village by way of retaliation."

While he was thus proceeding, Lord Etherington, as if in a listless
mood, was looking at the letters which stood ranged on the
chimney-piece, and carrying on a languid dialogue with Mrs. Pott, whose
person and manners were not ill adapted to her situation, for she was
good-looking, and vastly fine and affected.

"Number of letters here which don't seem to find owners, Mrs. Pott?"

"Great number, indeed, my lord--it is a great vexation, for we are
obliged to return them to the post-office, and the postage is charged
against us if they are lost; and how can one keep sight of them all?"

"Any love-letters among them, Mrs. Pott?" said his lordship, lowering
his tone.

"Oh, fie! my lord, how should I know?" answered Mrs. Pott, dropping her
voice to the same cadence.

"Oh! every one can tell a love-letter--that has ever received one, that
is--one knows them without opening--they are always folded hurriedly and
sealed carefully--and the direction manifests a kind of tremulous
agitation, that marks the state of the writer's nerves--that
now,"--pointing with his switch to a letter upon the chimney-piece,
"that _must_ be a love-letter."

"He, he, he!" giggled Mrs. Pott, "I beg pardon for laughing, my
lord--but--he, he, he!--that is a letter from one Bindloose, the banker
body, to the old woman Luckie Dods, as they call her, at the
change-house in the Aultoun."

"Depend upon it then, Mrs. Pott, that your neighbour, Mrs. Dods, has got
a lover in Mr. Bindloose--unless the banker has been shaking hands with
the palsy. Why do you not forward her letter?--you are very cruel to
keep it in durance here."

"Me forward!" answered Mrs. Pott; "the cappernoity, old, girning
alewife, may wait long enough or I forward it--She'll not loose the
letters that come to her by the King's post, and she must go on troking
wi' the old carrier, as if there was no post-house in the neighbourhood.
But the solicitor will be about wi' her one of these days."

"Oh! you are too cruel--you really should send the love-letter;
consider, the older she is