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Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an indignant eye at the
glass, shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks,
to do her justice, uncommonly genteel.
‘Listen then, my angel,’ says she after several sarcastic
nods. ‘You are very spiritual. But can you restore him back
to life?’
Mr. Bucket answers, ‘Not exactly.’
‘That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual.
Can you make a honourahle lady of her?’
‘Don’t be so malicious,’ says Mr. Bucket.
‘Or a haughty gentleman of HIM?’ cries mademoiselle,
referring to Sir Leicester with ineffable disdain. ‘Eh! Oh,
then regard him! The poor infant! Ha! Ha! Ha!’
‘Come, come, why this is worse PARLAYING than the
other,’ says Mr. Bucket. ‘Come along!’
‘You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you
please with me. It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us
go, my angel. Adieu, you old man, grey. I pity you, and I de-
spise you!’
With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if
her mouth closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe
how Mr. Bucket gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat
in a manner so peculiar to himself, enfolding and pervad-
ing her like a cloud, and hovering away with her as if he
were a homely Jupiter and she the object of his affections.
Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as
though he were still listening and his attention were still
occupied. At length he gazes round the empty room, and
finding it deserted, rises unsteadily to his feet, pushes back

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