e lived. (I don't know what would have come to her
had she been told she was a tradeswoman!) Her butchers, bakers,
and market-people paid her as much respect as though she had been a
grandee's housekeeper out of Kemp Town. Knowing her station, she yet was
kind to those inferior beings. She held affable conversations with
them, she patronised Mr. Rogers, who was said to be worth a hundred
thousand--two-hundred-thousand pounds (or lbs. was it?), and who said,
"Law bless the old Duchess, she do make as much of a pound of veal
cutlet as some would of a score of bullocks, but you see she's a lady
born and a lady bred: she'd die before she'd owe a farden, and she's
seen better days, you know." She went to see the grocer's wife on an
interesting occasion, and won the heart of the family by tasting their
candle. Her fishmonger (it was fine to hear her talk of "my fishmonger")
would sell her a whiting as respectfully as if she had called for a
dozen turbots and lobsters. It was believed by those good folks that her
father had been a Bishop at the very least; and the better days which
she had known were supposed to signify some almost unearthly prosperity.
"I have always found, Hannah," the simple soul would say, "that people
know their place, or can be very very easily made to find it if they
lose it; and if a gentlewoman does not forget herself, her inferiors
will not forget that she is a gentlewoman." "No indeed, mum, and I'm
sure they would do no such thing, mum," says Hannah, who carries away
the teapot for her own breakfast (to be transmitted to Sally for her
subsequent refection), whilst her mistress washes her cup and saucer, as
her mother had washed her own china many scores of years ago.

If some of the surrounding lodging-house keepers, as I have no doubt
they did, disliked the little Duchess for the airs which she gave
herself, as they averred; they must have envied her too her superior
prosperity, for there was scarcely ever a card in her window, whilst
those ensigns in her neighbours' houses would remain exposed to
the flies and the weather, and disregarded by passers-by for months
together. She had many regular customers, or what should be rather
called constant friends. Deaf old Mr. Cricklade came every winter for
fourteen years, and stopped until the hunting was over; an invaluable
man, giving little trouble, passing all day on horseback, and all night
over his rubber at the club. The Misses Barkham, Barkhambury,