a throbbing heart and a five-pound note, to
engage places for the houri's benefit, Clive beheld Madame Rogomme,
Mademoiselle Saltarelli's mother, who entertained him in the French
language in a dark parlour smelling of onions. And oh! issuing from the
adjoining dining-room (where was a dingy vision of a feast and pewter
pots upon a darkling tablecloth), could that lean, scraggy, old,
beetle-browed yellow face, who cried, "Ou es tu donc, maman?" with such
a shrill nasal voice--could that elderly vixen be that blooming and
divine Saltarelli? Clive drew her picture as she was, and a likeness
of Madame Rogomme, her mamma; a Mosaic youth, profusely jewelled, and
scented at once with tobacco and eau-de-cologne, occupied Clive's stall
on Mademoiselle Saltarelli's night. It was young Mr. Moss, of Gandish's
to whom Newcome ceded his place, and who laughed (as he always did at
Clive's jokes) when the latter told the story of his interview with the
dancer. "Paid five pound to see that woman! I could have took you behind
the scenes" (or "beide the seeds," Mr. Moss said) "and showed her to you
for nothing." Did he take Clive behind the scenes? Over this part of the
young gentleman's life, without implying the least harm to him--for
have not others been behind the scenes; and can there be any more dreary
object than those whitened and raddled old women who shudder at the
slips?--over this stage of Clive Newcome's life we may surely drop the
curtain.

It is pleasanter to contemplate that kind old face of Clive's father,
that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two ride homewards
at sunset. The grooms behind in quiet conversation about horses, as men
never tire of talking about horses. Ethel wants to know about battles;
about lovers' lamps, which she has read of in Lalla Rookh. "Have you
ever seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a night?" About
Indian widows. "Did you actually see one burning, and hear her scream
as you rode up?" She wonders whether he will tell her anything about
Clive's mother: how she must have loved Uncle Newcome! Ethel can't bear,
somehow, to think that her name was Mrs. Casey, perhaps he was very fond
of her; though he scarcely ever mentions her name. She was nothing like
that good old funny Miss Honeyman at Brighton. Who could the person
be?--a person that her uncle knew ever so long ago--a French lady, whom
her uncle says Ethel often resembles? That is why he speaks French so
well. He can rec