man in
Britannia's confidence, and with him transacts some delicate affairs
of business, and issues an address to the independent electors of
Pocket-Breaches, announcing that he is coming among them for their
suffrages, as the mariner returns to the home of his early childhood: a
phrase which is none the worse for his never having been near the place
in his life, and not even now distinctly knowing where it is.

Mrs Veneering, during the same eventful hours, is not idle. No sooner
does the carriage turn out, all complete, than she turns into it, all
complete, and gives the word 'To Lady Tippins's.' That charmer dwells
over a staymaker's in the Belgravian Borders, with a life-size model
in the window on the ground floor of a distinguished beauty in a blue
petticoat, stay-lace in hand, looking over her shoulder at the town in
innocent surprise. As well she may, to find herself dressing under the
circumstances.

Lady Tippins at home? Lady Tippins at home, with the room darkened,
and her back (like the lady's at the ground-floor window, though for a
different reason) cunningly turned towards the light. Lady Tippins is
so surprised by seeing her dear Mrs Veneering so early--in the middle of
the night, the pretty creature calls it--that her eyelids almost go up,
under the influence of that emotion.

To whom Mrs Veneering incoherently communicates, how that Veneering
has been offered Pocket-Breaches; how that it is the time for rallying
round; how that Veneering has said 'We must work'; how that she is here,
as a wife and mother, to entreat Lady Tippins to work; how that the
carriage is at Lady Tippins's disposal for purposes of work; how that
she, proprietress of said bran new elegant equipage, will return home on
foot--on bleeding feet if need be--to work (not specifying how), until
she drops by the side of baby's crib.

'My love,' says Lady Tippins, 'compose yourself; we'll bring him in.'
And Lady Tippins really does work, and work the Veneering horses too;
for she clatters about town all day, calling upon everybody she knows,
and showing her entertaining powers and green fan to immense advantage,
by rattling on with, My dear soul, what do you think? What do
you suppose me to be? You'll never guess. I'm pretending to be an
electioneering agent. And for what place of all places? Pocket-Breaches.
And why? Because the dearest friend I have in the world has bought it.
And who is the dearest friend I have in the world? A man