y thought the pineapple delicious. "The dear thing does not
remember the pineapples in the West Indies!" cries Mrs. Mackenzie; and
she gave us many exciting narratives of entertainments at which she had
been present at various colonial governors' tables. After luncheon, our
host hoped we should have a little music. Dancing, of course, could not
be allowed. "That," said Honeyman with his soft-bleating sigh, "were
scarcely clerical. You know, besides, you are in a hermitage; and" (with
a glance round the table) "must put up with Cenobite's fare." The fare
was, as I have said, excellent. The wine was bad, as George, and I,
and Sib agreed; and in so far we flattered ourselves that our feast
altogether excelled the parson's. The champagne especially was
such stuff, that Warrington remarked on it to his neighbour, a dark
gentleman, with a tuft to his chin, and splendid rings and chains.

The dark gentleman's wife and daughter were the other two ladies invited
by our host. The elder was splendidly dressed. Poor Mrs. Mackenzie's
simple gimcracks, though she displayed them to the most advantage,
and could make an ormolu bracelet go as far as another woman's emerald
clasps, were as nothing compared to the other lady's gorgeous
jewellery. Her fingers glittered with rings innumerable. The head of her
smelling-bottle was as big as her husband's gold snuff box, and of the
same splendid material. Our ladies, it must be confessed, came in a
modest cab from Fitzroy Square; these arrived in a splendid little open
carriage with white ponies, and harness all over brass, which the lady
of the rings drove with a whip that was a parasol. Mrs. Mackenzie,
standing at Honeyman's window, with her arm round Rosey's waist, viewed
this arrival perhaps with envy. "My dear Mr. Honeyman, whose are those
beautiful horses?" cries Rosey, with enthusiasm.

The divine says with a faint blush--"It is--ah--it is Mrs. Sherrick and
Miss Sherrick who have done me the favour to come to luncheon."

"Wine-merchant. Oh!" thinks Mrs. Mackenzie, who has seen Sherrick's
brass plate on the cellar door of Lady Whittlesea's Chapel; and hence,
perhaps, she was a trifle more magniloquent than usual, and entertained
us with stories of colonial governors and their ladies, mentioning no
persons but those who "had handles to their names," as the phrase is.

Although Sherrick had actually supplied the champagne which Warrington
abused to him in confidence, the wine-merchant wa