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Mrs. Puffit put her lace upon the alabaster neck of the large doll which stood in the middle of her shop. “Only look, my lady–only see, ma’am, how beautiful becoming ’tis to the neck, and sets off a dress too, you know, ma’am. And (turning to Miss Burrage) eight and twenty, you know, ma’am, is really nothing for any lace you’d wear; but more particularly for real Valenciennes, which can scarce be had real, for love or money, since the French Revolution. Real Valenciennes!–and will wear and wash, and wash and wear–not that your ladyship minds that–for ever and ever,–and is such a bargain, and so becoming to the neck, especially to ladies of your la’ship’s complexion.”

“Well, I protest, I believe, Burrage, I don’t know what to say, my dear–hey?”

“I’m told,” whispered Miss Burrage, “that Miss Trentham’s to have a lace raffle at the Wells next week.”

“A raffle?” cried Lady Di., turning her back immediately upon the doll and the lace.

“Well,” cried Mrs. Puffit, “instead of eight say seven and twenty shillings, Miss Burrage, for old acquaintance sake.”

“Old acquaintance!” exclaimed Miss Burrage: “la! Mrs. Puffit, I don’t remember ever being twice in your shop all the time I was at the Wells before.”

“No, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Puffit, with a malicious smile–but when you was living on Saint Augustin’s Back.”

“Saint Augustin’s Back, my dear!” exclaimed Lady Diana Chillingworth, with a look of horror and amazement.

Miss Burrage, laying down a bank-note on the counter, made a quick and expressive sign to the milliner to hold her tongue.

“Dear Mrs. Puffit,” cried she, “you certainly mistake me for some other strange person. Lady Di., now I look at it with my glass, this lace is very fine, I must agree with you, and not dear, by any means, for real Valenciennes: cut me off three yards of this lace–I protest there’s no withstanding it, Lady Di.”

“Three yards at eight and twenty–here, Jesse,” said Mrs. Puffit. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, for my mistake; I supposed it was some other lady of the same name; there are so many Burrages. Only three yards did you say, ma’am?”

“Nay, I don’t care if you give me four. I’m of the Burrages of Dorsetshire.”

“A very good family, those Burrages of Dorsetshire, as any in England,” said Lady Di.–“and put up twelve yards of this for me, Mrs. Puffit.”

“Twelve at eight and twenty–yes, my lady–very much obliged to your ladyship–much obliged to you, Miss Burrage. Here, Jesse, this to my Lady Di. Chillingworth’s carriage.” Jesse called at the shop-door, in a shrill voice, to a black servant of Lady Frances Somerset–“Mr. Hector, Mr. Hector! Sir, pray put this parcel into the carriage for Lady Diana Chillingworth.”

Angelina, who was waiting in her hackney-coach, started; she could scarcely believe that she heard the name rightly:–but, an instant afterwards, the voice of Lady Diana struck her ear, and she sunk back in great agitation. However, neither Miss Burrage nor Lady Di. saw her; they got into their carriage, and drove away.

Angelina was so much alarmed, that she could scarcely believe that the danger was past when she saw the carriage at the furthest end of the street.

“Wouldn’t you be pleased to ‘light, ma’am?” said Jesse.

“We don’t bring things to the door.”

“Who have we here?” cried Mrs. Puffit; “who have we here?”

“Only some folks out of a hack, that was kept waiting, and couldn’t draw up whilst my Lady Di.’s carriage was at the door,” said Jesse.

“A good pretty girl, the foremost,” said Mrs. Puffit. “But, in the name of wonder, what’s that odd fish coming behind her?”

“A queer-looking pair, in good truth!” said Jesse.

Angelina seated herself, and gave a deep sigh. “Ribands, if you please, ma’am,” said she to Mrs. Puffit. “I must,” thought she, “ask for something before I ask for my Araminta.”

“Ribands–yes, ma’am–what sort? Keep an eye upon the glass,” whispered the milliner to her shop girl, as she stooped behind the counter for a drawer of ribands–“keep an eye on the glass, Jesse–a girl of the town, I take it. What colour, ma’am?”