"The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Rousing himself, he went to the door. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him. She was to see Capes to-morrow, but now, in this state of misery she had achieved, she felt assured he would turn his back upon her, take no notice of her at all. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. Then the work is optional; they go on their own. I was worried.
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