I shall be a body. Some handsome women will cry; she will laugh demnebly.”

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Alfred, you cruel, cruel creature," said Madame Mantalini, sobbing at the the dreadful picture.

"She calls me cruel-me-me-who for her sake will become a demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body!" exclaimed Mr. Mantalini.

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You know it almost breaks my heart, even to hear you talk of such a thing,” replied Madame Mantalini.

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66 Can I live to be mistrusted?" cried her husband. Have I cut my heart into a demd extraordinary number of little pieces, and given them all away, one after another, to the same little engrossing demnition captivator, and can I live to be suspected by her! Demmit, no I can't."

"Ask Mr. Nickleby whether the sum I have mentioned is not a proper one," reasoned Madame Mantalini.

"I don't want any sum," replied her disconsolate husband; "I shall require no demd allowance. I will be a body."

XVIII

Mr. Turveydrop and Deportment MY eyes were yet wandering, from young

Mr. Turveydrop working so hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when the latter came ambling up to me, and entered into conversation.

He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a

charm and a distinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it necessary to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that, in any case, but merely told him where I did reside.

"A lady so graceful and accomplished,” he said, kissing his right glove, and afterwards extending it towards the pupils, "will look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to polishpolish-polish!"

He sat down beside me; taking some pains to sit on the form, I thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the sofa. And really he did look very like it.

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"To polish--polish-polish!" he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff and gently fluttering his fingers. But we are not-if I may say so, to one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art; with the high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes—“ we are not what we used to be in point of Deportment."

"Are we not, sir?" said I.

"We have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, which he could do, to a very limited extent, in his cravat. "A levelling age is not favourable to Deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that I have been called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop; or that His Royal Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour to inquire, on my removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at Brighton (that fine building), 'Who is he? Who the Devil is he? Why don't

I know him? Why hasn't he thirty thousand a-year? But these are little matters of anecdote -the general property, ma'am,—still repeated, occasionally, among the upper classes." "Indeed?" said I.

He replied with the high-shouldered bow. "Where what is left among us of Deportment,' he added, "still lingers. England-alas, my country!—has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day. She has not many gentle

men left.

us,

We are few.

but a race of weavers."

I see nothing to succeed

"One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated here,” said I.

"You are very good," he smiled, with the highshouldered bow again. "You flatter me. But, no-no! I have never been able to imbue my poor boy with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should disparage my dear child, but he has— no Deportment.

"He appears to be an excellent master," I observed.

"Understand me, my dear madam, he is an excellent master. All that can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can impart. But there are things "-he took another pinch of snuff and made the bow again, as if to add, this kind of thing, for instance."

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I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby's lover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than ever. My amiable child," murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting his cravat.

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"Your son is indefatigable,” said I.

"It is my reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, “to hear you say so. In some respects, he treads in

the footsteps of his sainted mother. She was a devoted creature. But Wooman, lovely Wooman," said Mr. Turveydrop, with very disagreeable gallantry," what a sex you are !”

"You

XIX

Mr. Lammle is pugnacious

YOU are a very offensive fellow, sir," cried Mr. Lammle, rising. "You are a highly offensive scoundrel. What do you mean by this behaviour?"

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out."

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I say," remonstrated Fledgeby.

“Don't break

"You are a very offensive fellow, sir,” repeated Mr. Lammle. You are a highly offensive

scoundrel!"

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"I say, you know!" urged Fledgeby, quailing. Why, you coarse and vulgar vagabond! said Mr. Lammle, looking fiercely about him, “if your servant was here to give me sixpence of your money to get my boots cleaned afterwards-for you are not worth the expenditure—I 'd kick you. "No, you wouldn't," pleaded Fledgeby.

am sure you'd think better of it."

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I

“I tell you what, Mr. Fledgeby," said Lammle, advancing on him. Since you presume to contradict me, I'll assert myself a little. Give me your

nose ! "

Fledgeby covered it with his hand instead, and said, retreating, “I beg you won't!”

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Give me your nose, sir," repeated Lammle.

Still covering that feature and backing, Mr. Fledgeby reiterated (apparently with a severe cold in his head), "I beg, I beg, you won't."

"And this fellow," exclaimed Lammle, stopping and making the most of his chest--“ this fellow presumes on my having selected him out of all the young fellows I know, for an advantageous opportunity! This fellow presumes on my having in my desk round the corner his dirty note of hand for a wretched sum payable on the occurrence of a certain event, which event can only be of my and wife's bringing about! This fellow, Fledgeby, presumes to be impertinent to me, Lammle. Give me your nose, sir !"

my

"No! Stop! I beg your pardon," said Fledgeby, with humility.

"What do you say, sir?" demanded Mr. Lammle, seeming too furious to understand. "I beg your pardon," repeated Fledgeby. "Repeat your words louder, sir. The just indignation of a gentleman has sent the blood boiling to my head. I don't hear you.'

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'I say," repeated Fledgeby, with laborious explanatory politeness, “I beg your pardon."

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Mr. Lammle paused. As a man of honour,” said he, throwing himself into a chair, “I am disarmed."

Mr. Fledgeby also took a chair, though less demonstratively, and by slow approaches removed his hand from his nose. Some natural diffidence