Saturday is
a holiday with gentlemen of our profession. We had invited F. Bayham,
Esquire, and promised ourselves a merry evening, and were unwilling to
baulk ourselves of the pleasure on account of the absence of our young
Roman. So we three went to London Bridge Station at an early hour,
proposing to breathe the fresh air of Greenwich Park before dinner. And,
at London Bridge, by the most singular coincidence, Lady Kew's carriage
drove up to the Brighton entrance, and Miss Ethel and her maid stepped
out of the brougham.
When Miss Newcome and her maid entered the Brighton station, did Mr.
Clive, by another singular coincidence, happen also to be there? What
more natural and dutiful than that he should go and see his aunt, Miss
Honeyman? What more proper than that Miss Ethel should pass the Saturday
and Sunday with her sick father; and take a couple of wholesome nights'
rest after those five weary past evenings, for each of which we may
reckon a couple of soirees and a ball? And that relations should travel
together, the young lady being protected by her femme-de-chambre; that
surely, as every one must allow, was perfectly right and proper.
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