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A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY 87
something for you; per'aps we shan't—we shan't see each other
for some time." The tears were in his eyes as he spoke, and he
handed her over seven shillings and fourpence halfpenny, being every
farthing he possessed in the world.
" Well, I'm sure !" said Becky; and that was all she said, for
she pocketed the money, and fell to scrubbing again.
Presently the three gentlemen upstairs came clattering down.
" Lawk bless you, don't be in such a 'urry!" exclaimed Becky;
"it's full herly yet, and the water's not biling."
"We'll come back to breakfast, my dear," said one, a little
gentleman in high-heeled boots ; " and, I thay, mind and have thum
thoda-water." And he walked out, twirling his cane. His friend
with the case followed him. Mr. Brandon came last.
He too turned back after he had gone a few paces. " Becky,"
said he, in a grave voice, "if I am not back in half-an-hour, give
that to Miss Gann."
Becky was fairly flustered by this ; and after turning the letters
round and round, and peeping into the sides, and looking at the
seals very hard, she like a fool determined that she would not wait
half-an-hour, but carry them up to Miss Caroline ; and so up she
mounted, finding pretty Caroline in the act of lacing her stays.
And the consequences of Becky's conduct was that little Carry
left off lacing her stays (a sweet little figure the poor thing looked
in them ; but that is neither here nor there), took the letters, looked
at one which she threw down directly; at the other, which she
eagerly opened, and having read a line or two, gave a loud scream,
and fell down dead in a fainting fit.
Waft us, 0 Muse! to Mr. Wright's hotel, and quick narrate
what chances there befell. Very early in the morning Mdlle.
Augustine made her appearance in the apartment of Miss Runt,
and with great glee informed that lady of the event which was about
to take place. " Figurez-vous, mademoiselle, que notre homme va
se battre—oh, but it will be droll to see him sword in hand !"
"Don't plague me with your ojous servants' quarrels, Augustine
; that horrid courier is always quarrelling and tipsy."
" Mon Dieu, qu'elle est bete !" exclaimed Augustine : " but I
tell you it is not the courier; it is he, l'objet, le peintre dont
madame s'est amourachée, Monsieur Feesh."
"Mr. Fitch!" cried Runt, jumping up in bed. "Mr. Fitch
going to fight ! Augustine, my stockings—quick, my robe-dechambre—tell
me when, how, where ?"
And so Augustine told her that the combat was to take place
at nine that morning, behind the Windmill, and that the gentleman