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 was not wounded; on the
contrary, he roared with laughter at the remark, and some of us smiled
who understood the humour of the joke.
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