prompt:
Chapter: Chiswick Mall

While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning
in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's
academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with
two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a
three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour.  A black
servant, who reposed on the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled his
bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's
shining brass plate, and as he pulled the bell at least a score of
young heads were seen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately
old brick house.  Nay, the acute observer might have recognized the
little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising
over some geranium pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room.

"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. "Sambo, the
black servant, has just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red
waistcoat."

"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss
Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss Pinkerton herself, that
majestic lady; the Semiramis of Hammersmith, the friend of Doctor
Johnson, the correspondent of Mrs. Chapone herself.

"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister,"
replied Miss Jemima; "we have made her a bow-pot."

"Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel."

"Well, a booky as big almost as a haystack; I have put up two bottles
of the gillyflower water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making
it, in Amelia's box."

"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's
account.  This is it, is it? Very good--ninety-three pounds, four
shillings.  Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and
to seal this billet which I have written to his lady."

In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss
Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as would have been a
letter from a sovereign.  Only when her pupils quitted the
establishment, or when they were about to be married, and once, when
poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to
write personally to the parents of her pupils; and it was Jemima's
opinion that if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's
loss, it would be that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss
Pinkerton announced the event.

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the following
effect:--

The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18

MADAM,--After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour
and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a
young lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished
and refined circle.  Those virtues which characterize the young English
gentlewoman, those accomplishments which become her birth and station,
will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose INDUSTRY
and OBEDIENCE have endeared her to her instructors, and whose
delightful sweetness of temper has charmed her AGED and her YOUTHFUL
companions.

In music, in dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery
and needlework, she will be found to have realized her friends' fondest
wishes.  In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful
and undeviating use of the backboard, for four hours daily during the
next three years, is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of
that dignified DEPORTMENT AND CARRIAGE, so requisite for every young
lady of FASHION.

In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found
worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence of
THE GREAT LEXICOGRAPHER, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs.
Chapone.  In leaving the Mall, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts
of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who
has the honour to subscribe herself,

Madam, Your most obliged humble servant, BARBARA PINKERTON

P.S.--Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley.  It is particularly requested
that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days.  The
family of distinction with whom she is engaged, desire to avail
themselves of her services as soon as possible.

This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name,
and Miss Sedley's, in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary--the
interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars, on
their departure from the Mall.  On the cover was inserted a copy of
"Lines addressed to a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school,
at the Mall; by the late revered Doctor Samuel Johnson." In fact, the
Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this majestic woman, and
a visit he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her
fortune.

Being commanded by her elder sister to get "the Dictionary" from the
cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from the
receptacle in question.  When Miss Pinkerton had finished the
inscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air,
handed her the second.

"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awful
coldness.

"For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing
over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister.
"For Becky Sharp: she's going too."

"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are
you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never
venture to take such a liberty in future."

"Well, sister, it's only two-and-ninepence, and poor Becky will be
miserable if she don't get one."

"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," said Miss Pinkerton. And so
venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly
flurried and nervous.

Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of some wealth;
whereas Miss Sharp was an articled pupil, for whom Miss Pinkerton had
done, as she thought, quite enough, without conferring upon her at
parting the high honour of the Dixonary.

Although schoolmistresses' letters are to be trusted no more nor less
than churchyard epitaphs; yet, as it sometimes happens that a person
departs this life who is really deserving of all the praises the stone
cutter carves over his bones; who IS a good Christian, a good parent,
child, wife, or husband; who actually DOES leave a disconsolate family
to mourn his loss; so in academies of the male and female sex it occurs
every now and then that the pupil is fully worthy of the praises
bestowed by the disinterested instructor. Now, Miss Amelia Sedley was a
young lady of this singular species; and deserved not only all that
Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but had many charming qualities
which that pompous old Minerva of a woman could not see, from the
differences of rank and age between her pupil and herself.

For she could not only sing like a lark, or a Mrs. Billington, and
dance like Hillisberg or Parisot; and embroider beautifully; and spell
as well as a Dixonary itself; but she had such a kindly, smiling,
tender, gentle, generous heart of her own, as won the love of everybody
who came near her, from Minerva herself down to the poor girl in the
scullery, and the one-eyed tart-woman's daughter, who was permitted to
vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall.  She had
twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four young ladies.
Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her; high and mighty Miss
Saltire (Lord Dexter's granddaughter) allowed that her figure was
genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from
St. Kitt's, on the day Amelia went away, she was in such a passion of
tears that they were obliged to send for Dr. Floss, and half tipsify
her with salvolatile.  Miss Pinkerton's attachment was, as may be
supposed from the high position and eminent virtues of that lady, calm
and dignified; but Miss Jemima had already whimpered several times at
the idea of Amelia's departure; and, but for fear of her sister, would
have gone off in downright hysterics, like the heiress (who paid
double) of St. Kitt's.  Such luxury of grief, however, is only allowed
to parlour-boarders. Honest Jemima had all the bills, and the washing,
and the mending, and the puddings, and the plate and crockery, and the
servants to superintend.  But why speak about her?  It is probable that
we shall not hear of her again from this moment to the end of time, and
that when the great filigree iron gates are once closed on her, she and
her awful sister will never issue therefrom into this little world of
history.

But as we are to see a great deal of Amelia, there is no harm in
saying, at the outset of our acquaintance, that she was a dear little
creature; and a great mercy it is, both in life and in novels, which
(and the latter especially) abound in villains of the most sombre sort,
that we are to have for a constant companion so guileless and
good-natured a person.  As she is not a heroine, there is no need to
describe her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short
than otherwise, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a
heroine; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the
freshest of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the
brightest and honestest good-humour, except indeed when they filled
with tears, and that was a great deal too often; for the silly thing
would cry over a dead canary-bird; or over a mouse, that the cat haply
had seized upon; or over the end of a novel, were it ever so stupid;
and as for saying an unkind word to her, were any persons hard-hearted
enough to do so--why, so much the worse for them.  Even Miss Pinkerton,
that austere and godlike woman, ceased scolding her after the first
time, and though she no more comprehended sensibility than she did
Algebra, gave all masters and teachers particular orders to treat Miss
Sedley with the utmost gentleness, as harsh treatment was injurious to
her.

So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of
laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She
was glad to go home, and yet most woefully sad at leaving school.  For
three days before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about
like a little dog.  She had to make and receive at least fourteen
presents--to make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week:
"Send my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of Dexter," said
Miss Saltire (who, by the way, was rather shabby).  "Never mind the
postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous and
woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate Miss Swartz; and the
orphan little Laura Martin (who was just in round-hand), took her
friend's hand and said, looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when
I write to you I shall call you Mamma." All which details, I have no
doubt, JONES, who reads this book at his Club, will pronounce to be
excessively foolish, trivial, twaddling, and ultra-sentimental.  Yes; I
can see Jones at this minute (rather flushed with his joint of mutton
and half pint of wine), taking out his pencil and scoring under the
words "foolish, twaddling," &c., and adding to them his own remark of
"QUITE TRUE." Well, he is a lofty man of genius, and admires the great
and heroic in life and novels; and so had better take warning and go
elsewhere.

Well, then.  The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, and
bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in the
carriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cow's-skin
trunk with Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered
by Sambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding
sneer--the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was
considerably lessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton
addressed to her pupil.  Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to
philosophise, or that it armed her in any way with a calmness, the
result of argument; but it was intolerably dull, pompous, and tedious;
and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatly before her eyes, Miss
Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to give way to any ebullitions
of private grief.  A seed-cake and a bottle of wine were produced in
the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of the visits of parents,
and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedley was at liberty to
depart.

"You'll go in and say good-by to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss
Jemima to a young lady of whom nobody took any notice, and who was
coming downstairs with her own bandbox.

"I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of
Miss Jemima; and the latter having knocked at the door, and receiving
permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned
manner, and said in French, and with a perfect accent, "Mademoiselle,
je viens vous faire mes adieux."

Miss Pinkerton did not understand French; she only directed those who
did: but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable and Roman-nosed
head (on the top of which figured a large and solemn turban), she said,
"Miss Sharp, I wish you a good morning." As the Hammersmith Semiramis
spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu, and to give Miss Sharp
an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand which was left
out for that purpose.

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow,
and quite declined to accept the proffered honour; on which Semiramis
tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever.  In fact, it was a
little battle between the young lady and the old one, and the latter
was worsted.  "Heaven bless you, my child," said she, embracing Amelia,
and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder at Miss Sharp.  "Come
away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in great
alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them for ever.

Then came the struggle and parting below.  Words refuse to tell it. All
the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young
ladies--the dancing-master who had just arrived; and there was such a
scuffling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical
YOOPS of Miss Swartz, the parlour-boarder, from her room, as no pen can
depict, and as the tender heart would fain pass over. The embracing was
over; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends.  Miss
Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before.  Nobody
cried for leaving HER.

Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weeping
mistress.  He sprang up behind the carriage.  "Stop!" cried Miss
Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.

"It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. "You may be
hungry, you know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here's a book for you that my
sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know; you mustn't leave us
without that.  Good-by.  Drive on, coachman.  God bless you!"

And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion.

But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp put her pale face
out of the window and actually flung the book back into the garden.

This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror.  "Well, I never"--said
she--"what an audacious"--Emotion prevented her from completing either
sentence.  The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the
bell rang for the dancing lesson.  The world is before the two young
ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall.

In Which Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley Prepare to Open the Campaign

When Miss Sharp had performed the heroical act mentioned in the last
chapter, and had seen the Dixonary, flying over the pavement of the
little garden, fall at length at the feet of the astonished Miss
Jemima, the young lady's countenance, which had before worn an almost
livid look of hatred, assumed a smile that perhaps was scarcely more
agreeable, and she sank back in the carriage in an easy frame of mind,
saying--"So much for the Dixonary; and, thank God, I'm out of Chiswick."

Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as Miss
Jemima had been; for, consider, it was but one minute that she had left
school, and the impressions of six years are not got over in that space
of time.  Nay, with some persons those awes and terrors of youth last
for ever and ever.  I know, for instance, an old gentleman of
sixty-eight, who said to me one morning at breakfast, with a very
agitated countenance, "I dreamed last night that I was flogged by Dr.
Raine." Fancy had carried him back five-and-fifty years in the course
of that evening.  Dr. Raine and his rod were just as awful to him in
his heart, then, at sixty-eight, as they had been at thirteen.  If the
Doctor, with a large birch, had appeared bodily to him, even at the age
of threescore and eight, and had said in awful voice, "Boy, take down
your pant--"? Well, well, Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed at this
act of insubordination.

"How could you do so, Rebecca?" at last she said, after a pause.

"Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me back to
the black-hole?" said Rebecca, laughing.

"No: but--"

"I hate the whole house," continued Miss Sharp in a fury.  "I hope I
may never set eyes on it again.  I wish it were in the bottom of the
Thames, I do; and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn't pick her
out, that I wouldn't.  O how I should like to see her floating in the
water yonder, turban and all, with her train streaming after her, and
her nose like the beak of a wherry."

"Hush!" cried Miss Sedley.

"Why, will the black footman tell tales?" cried Miss Rebecca, laughing.
"He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I hate her with all my
soul; and I wish he would; and I wish I had a means of proving it, too.
For two years I have only had insults and outrage from her. I have been
treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I have never had a
friend or a kind word, except from you.  I have been made to tend the
little girls in the lower schoolroom, and to talk French to the Misses,
until I grew sick of my mother tongue. But that talking French to Miss
Pinkerton was capital fun, wasn't it? She doesn't know a word of
French, and was too proud to confess it.  I believe it was that which
made her part with me; and so thank Heaven for French.  Vive la France!
Vive l'Empereur! Vive Bonaparte!"

"O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this was the
greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet uttered; and in those days, in
England, to say, "Long live Bonaparte!" was as much as to say, "Long
live Lucifer!" "How can you--how dare you have such wicked, revengeful
thoughts?"

"Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural," answered Miss Rebecca. "I'm
no angel." And, to say the truth, she certainly was not.

For it may be remarked in the course of this little conversation (which
took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the river side) that
though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to thank Heaven, it
has been, in the first place, for ridding her of some person whom she
hated, and secondly, for enabling her to bring her enemies to some sort
of perplexity or confusion; neither of which are very amiable motives
for religious gratitude, or such as would be put forward by persons of
a kind and placable disposition.  Miss Rebecca was not, then, in the
least kind or placable.  All the world used her ill, said this young
misanthropist, and we may be pretty certain that persons whom all the
world treats ill, deserve entirely the treatment they get.  The world
is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his
own face.  Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh
at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all
young persons take their choice. This is certain, that if the world
neglected Miss Sharp, she never was known to have done a good action in
behalf of anybody; nor can it be expected that twenty-four young ladies
should all be as amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss Sedley (whom
we have selected for the very reason that she was the best-natured of
all, otherwise what on earth was to have prevented us from putting up
Miss Swartz, or Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, as heroine in her place!)
it could not be expected that every one should be of the humble and
gentle temper of Miss Amelia Sedley; should take every opportunity to
vanquish Rebecca's hard-heartedness and ill-humour; and, by a thousand
kind words and offices, overcome, for once at least, her hostility to
her kind.

Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality had given
lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man; a
pleasant companion; a careless student; with a great propensity for
running into debt, and a partiality for the tavern.  When he was drunk,
he used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morning, with a
headache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his genius, and
abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and sometimes with perfect
reason, the fools, his brother painters.  As it was with the utmost
difficulty that he could keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile
round Soho, where he lived, he thought to better his circumstances by
marrying a young woman of the French nation, who was by profession an
opera-girl.  The humble calling of her female parent Miss Sharp never
alluded to, but used to state subsequently that the Entrechats were a
noble family of Gascony, and took great pride in her descent from them.
And curious it is that as she advanced in life this young lady's
ancestors increased in rank and splendour.

Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter
spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent.  It was in those days
rather a rare accomplishment, and led to her engagement with the
orthodox Miss Pinkerton.  For her mother being dead, her father,
finding himself not likely to recover, after his third attack of
delirium tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton,
recommending the orphan child to her protection, and so descended to
the grave, after two bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse.  Rebecca
was seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as an
articled pupil; her duties being to talk French, as we have seen; and
her privileges to live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to
gather scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended the school.

She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes
habitually cast down: when they looked up they were very large, odd,
and attractive; so attractive that the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from
Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of Chiswick, the Reverend Mr.
Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss Sharp; being shot dead by a glance of
her eyes which was fired all the way across Chiswick Church from the
school-pew to the reading-desk.  This infatuated young man used
sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he had been
presented by his mamma, and actually proposed something like marriage
in an intercepted note, which the one-eyed apple-woman was charged to
deliver.  Mrs. Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and abruptly carried off
her darling boy; but the idea, even, of such an eagle in the Chiswick
dovecot caused a great flutter in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who
would have sent away Miss Sharp but that she was bound to her under a
forfeit, and who never could thoroughly believe the young lady's
protestations that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr.
Crisp, except under her own eyes on the two occasions when she had met
him at tea.

By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the
establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child.  But she had the
dismal precocity of poverty.  Many a dun had she talked to, and turned
away from her father's door; many a tradesman had she coaxed and
wheedled into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal more. She
sate commonly with her father, who was very proud of her wit, and heard
the talk of many of his wild companions--often but ill-suited for a
girl to hear.  But she never had been a girl, she said; she had been a
woman since she was eight years old.  Oh, why did Miss Pinkerton let
such a dangerous bird into her cage?

The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest creature
in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when her father brought
her to Chiswick, used Rebecca to perform the part of the ingenue; and
only a year before the arrangement by which Rebecca had been admitted
into her house, and when Rebecca was sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton
majestically, and with a little speech, made her a present of a
doll--which was, by the way, the confiscated property of Miss Swindle,
discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. How the father
and daughter laughed as they trudged home together after the evening
party (it was on the occasion of the speeches, when all the professors
were invited) and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the
caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make
out of her doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formed
the delight of Newman Street, Gerrard Street, and the Artists' quarter:
and the young painters, when they came to take their gin-and-water with
their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior, used regularly to ask
Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home: she was as well known to them,
poor soul! as Mr. Lawrence or President West.  Once Rebecca had the
honour to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which she brought back
Jemima, and erected another doll as Miss Jemmy: for though that honest
creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for three
children, and a seven-shilling piece at parting, the girl's sense of
ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss
Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister.

The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to her home.
The rigid formality of the place suffocated her: the prayers and the
meals, the lessons and the walks, which were arranged with a conventual
regularity, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and she looked back
to the freedom and the beggary of the old studio in Soho with so much
regret, that everybody, herself included, fancied she was consumed with
grief for her father.  She had a little room in the garret, where the
maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it was with rage, and
not with grief.  She had not been much of a dissembler, until now her
loneliness taught her to feign. She had never mingled in the society of
women: her father, reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his
conversation was a thousand times more agreeable to her than the talk
of such of her own sex as she now encountered. The pompous vanity of
the old schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, the
silly chat and scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness
of the governesses equally annoyed her; and she had no soft maternal
heart, this unlucky girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the younger
children, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, might have soothed
and interested her; but she lived among them two years, and not one was
sorry that she went away.  The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was
the only person to whom she could attach herself in the least; and who
could help attaching herself to Amelia?

The happiness--the superior advantages of the young women round about
her, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy.  "What airs that girl
gives herself, because she is an Earl's grand-daughter," she said of
one.  "How they cringe and bow to that Creole, because of her hundred
thousand pounds!  I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming than
that creature, for all her wealth. I am as well bred as the Earl's
grand-daughter, for all her fine pedigree; and yet every one passes me
by here.  And yet, when I was at my father's, did not the men give up
their gayest balls and parties in order to pass the evening with me?"
She determined at any rate to get free from the prison in which she
found herself, and now began to act for herself, and for the first time
to make connected plans for the future.

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place offered
her; and as she was already a musician and a good linguist, she
speedily went through the little course of study which was considered
necessary for ladies in those days.  Her music she practised
incessantly, and one day, when the girls were out, and she had remained
at home, she was overheard to play a piece so well that Minerva
thought, wisely, she could spare herself the expense of a master for
the juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct them
in music for the future.

The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the astonishment of
the majestic mistress of the school.  "I am here to speak French with
the children," Rebecca said abruptly, "not to teach them music, and
save money for you.  Give me money, and I will teach them."

Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked her from that
day.  "For five-and-thirty years," she said, and with great justice, "I
never have seen the individual who has dared in my own house to
question my authority.  I have nourished a viper in my bosom."

"A viper--a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp to the old lady, almost
fainting with astonishment.  "You took me because I was useful. There
is no question of gratitude between us.  I hate this place, and want to
leave it.  I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do."

It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she was
speaking to Miss Pinkerton?  Rebecca laughed in her face, with a horrid
sarcastic demoniacal laughter, that almost sent the schoolmistress into
fits. "Give me a sum of money," said the girl, "and get rid of me--or,
if you like better, get me a good place as governess in a nobleman's
family--you can do so if you please."  And in their further disputes
she always returned to this point, "Get me a situation--we hate each
other, and I am ready to go."

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a turban, and
was as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to this time an
irresistible princess, had no will or strength like that of her little
apprentice, and in vain did battle against her, and tried to overawe
her. Attempting once to scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the
before-mentioned plan of answering her in French, which quite routed
the old woman.  In order to maintain authority in her school, it became
necessary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent, this
firebrand; and hearing about this time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family
was in want of a governess, she actually recommended Miss Sharp for the
situation, firebrand and serpent as she was.  "I cannot, certainly,"
she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp's conduct, except to myself; and
must allow that her talents and accomplishments are of a high order. As
far as the head goes, at least, she does credit to the educational
system pursued at my establishment."

And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to her
conscience, and the indentures were cancelled, and the apprentice was
free.  The battle here described in a few lines, of course, lasted for
some months.  And as Miss Sedley, being now in her seventeenth year,
was about to leave school, and had a friendship for Miss Sharp ("'tis
the only point in Amelia's behaviour," said Minerva, "which has not
been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss Sharp was invited by her
friend to pass a week with her at home, before she entered upon her
duties as governess in a private family.

Thus the world began for these two young ladies.  For Amelia it was
quite a new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the bloom upon it.  It
was not quite a new one for Rebecca--(indeed, if the truth must be told
with respect to the Crisp affair, the tart-woman hinted to somebody,
who took an affidavit of the fact to somebody else, that there was a
great deal more than was made public regarding Mr. Crisp and Miss
Sharp, and that his letter was in answer to another letter).  But who
can tell you the real truth of the matter? At all events, if Rebecca
was not beginning the world, she was beginning it over again.

By the time the young ladies reached Kensington turnpike, Amelia had
not forgotten her companions, but had dried her tears, and had blushed
very much and been delighted at a young officer of the Life Guards, who
spied her as he was riding by, and said, "A dem fine gal, egad!" and
before the carriage arrived in Russell Square, a great deal of
conversation had taken place about the Drawing-room, and whether or not
young ladies wore powder as well as hoops when presented, and whether
she was to have that honour: to the Lord Mayor's ball she knew she was
to go.  And when at length home was reached, Miss Amelia Sedley skipped
out on Sambo's arm, as happy and as handsome a girl as any in the whole
big city of London.  Both he and coachman agreed on this point, and so
did her father and mother, and so did every one of the servants in the
house, as they stood bobbing, and curtseying, and smiling, in the hall
to welcome their young mistress.

You may be sure that she showed Rebecca over every room of the house,
and everything in every one of her drawers; and her books, and her
piano, and her dresses, and all her necklaces, brooches, laces, and
gimcracks. She insisted upon Rebecca accepting the white cornelian and
the turquoise rings, and a sweet sprigged muslin, which was too small
for her now, though it would fit her friend to a nicety; and she
determined in her heart to ask her mother's permission to present her
white Cashmere shawl to her friend.  Could she not spare it? and had
not her brother Joseph just brought her two from India?

When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls which Joseph
Sedley had brought home to his sister, she said, with perfect truth,
"that it must be delightful to have a brother," and easily got the pity
of the tender-hearted Amelia for being alone in the world, an orphan
without friends or kindred.

"Not alone," said Amelia; "you know, Rebecca, I shall always be your
friend, and love you as a sister--indeed I will."

"Ah, but to have parents, as you have--kind, rich, affectionate
parents, who give you everything you ask for; and their love, which is
more precious than all! My poor papa could give me nothing, and I had
but two frocks in all the world! And then, to have a brother, a dear
brother! Oh, how you must love him!"

Amelia laughed.

"What! don't you love him? you, who say you love everybody?"

"Yes, of course, I do--only--"

"Only what?"

"Only Joseph doesn't seem to care much whether I love him or not. He
gave me two fingers to shake when he arrived after ten years' absence!
He is very kind and good, but he scarcely ever speaks to me; I think he
loves his pipe a great deal better than his"--but here Amelia checked
herself, for why should she speak ill of her brother? "He was very kind
to me as a child," she added; "I was but five years old when he went
away."

"Isn't he very rich?" said Rebecca.  "They say all Indian nabobs are
enormously rich."

"I believe he has a very large income."

"And is your sister-in-law a nice pretty woman?"

"La! Joseph is not married," said Amelia, laughing again.

Perhaps she had mentioned the fact already to Rebecca, but that young
lady did not appear to have remembered it; indeed, vowed and protested
that she expected to see a number of Amelia's nephews and nieces.  She
was quite disappointed that Mr. Sedley was not married; she was sure
Amelia had said he was, and she doted so on little children.

"I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick," said Amelia,
rather wondering at the sudden tenderness on her friend's part; and
indeed in later days Miss Sharp would never have committed herself so
far as to advance opinions, the untruth of which would have been so
easily detected.  But we must remember that she is but nineteen as yet,
unused to the art of deceiving, poor innocent creature! and making her
own experience in her own person.  The meaning of the above series of
queries, as translated in the heart of this ingenious young woman, was
simply this: "If Mr. Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I
not marry him? I have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no
harm in trying." And she determined within herself to make this
laudable attempt.  She redoubled her caresses to Amelia; she kissed the
white cornelian necklace as she put it on; and vowed she would never,
never part with it.  When the dinner-bell rang she went downstairs with
her arm round her friend's waist, as is the habit of young ladies. She
was so agitated at the drawing-room door, that she could hardly find
courage to enter.  "Feel my heart, how it beats, dear!" said she to her
friend.

"No, it doesn't," said Amelia.  "Come in, don't be frightened.  Papa
won't do you any harm."

Rebecca Is in Presence of the Enemy

A VERY stout, puffy man, in buckskins and Hessian boots, with several
immense neckcloths that rose almost to his nose, with a red striped
waistcoat and an apple green coat with steel buttons almost as large as
crown pieces (it was the morning costume of a dandy or blood of those
days) was reading the paper by the fire when the two girls entered, and
bounced off his arm-chair, and blushed excessively, and hid his entire
face almost in his neckcloths at this apparition.

"It's only your sister, Joseph," said Amelia, laughing and shaking the
two fingers which he held out.  "I've come home FOR GOOD, you know; and
this is my friend, Miss Sharp, whom you have heard me mention."

"No, never, upon my word," said the head under the neckcloth, shaking
very much--"that is, yes--what abominably cold weather, Miss"--and
herewith he fell to poking the fire with all his might, although it was
in the middle of June.

"He's very handsome," whispered Rebecca to Amelia, rather loud.

"Do you think so?" said the latter.  "I'll tell him."

"Darling! not for worlds," said Miss Sharp, starting back as timid as a
fawn.  She had previously made a respectful virgin-like curtsey to the
gentleman, and her modest eyes gazed so perseveringly on the carpet
that it was a wonder how she should have found an opportunity to see
him.

"Thank you for the beautiful shawls, brother," said Amelia to the fire
poker.  "Are they not beautiful, Rebecca?"

"O heavenly!" said Miss Sharp, and her eyes went from the carpet
straight to the chandelier.

Joseph still continued a huge clattering at the poker and tongs,
puffing and blowing the while, and turning as red as his yellow face
would allow him.  "I can't make you such handsome presents, Joseph,"
continued his sister, "but while I was at school, I have embroidered
for you a very beautiful pair of braces."

"Good Gad! Amelia," cried the brother, in serious alarm, "what do you
mean?" and plunging with all his might at the bell-rope, that article
of furniture came away in his hand, and increased the honest fellow's
confusion.  "For heaven's sake see if my buggy's at the door.  I CAN'T
wait.  I must go.  D---- that groom of mine. I must go."

At this minute the father of the family walked in, rattling his seals
like a true British merchant.  "What's the matter, Emmy?" says he.

"Joseph wants me to see if his--his buggy is at the door.  What is a
buggy, Papa?"

"It is a one-horse palanquin," said the old gentleman, who was a wag in
his way.

Joseph at this burst out into a wild fit of laughter; in which,
encountering the eye of Miss Sharp, he stopped all of a sudden, as if
he had been shot.

"This young lady is your friend? Miss Sharp, I am very happy to see
you.  Have you and Emmy been quarrelling already with Joseph, that he
wants to be off?"

"I promised Bonamy of our service, sir," said Joseph, "to dine with
him."

"O fie! didn't you tell your mother you would dine here?"

"But in this dress it's impossible."

"Look at him, isn't he handsome enough to dine anywhere, Miss Sharp?"

On which, of course, Miss Sharp looked at her friend, and they both set
off in a fit of laughter, highly agreeable to the old gentleman.

"Did you ever see a pair of buckskins like those at Miss Pinkerton's?"
continued he, following up his advantage.

"Gracious heavens! Father," cried Joseph.

"There now, I have hurt his feelings.  Mrs. Sedley, my dear, I have
hurt your son's feelings.  I have alluded to his buckskins.  Ask Miss
Sharp if I haven't? Come, Joseph, be friends with Miss Sharp, and let
us all go to dinner."

"There's a pillau, Joseph, just as you like it, and Papa has brought
home the best turbot in Billingsgate."

"Come, come, sir, walk downstairs with Miss Sharp, and I will follow
with these two young women," said the father, and he took an arm of
wife and daughter and walked merrily off.

If Miss Rebecca Sharp had determined in her heart upon making the
conquest of this big beau, I don't think, ladies, we have any right to
blame her; for though the task of husband-hunting is generally, and
with becoming modesty, entrusted by young persons to their mammas,
recollect that Miss Sharp had no kind parent to arrange these delicate
matters for her, and that if she did not get a husband for herself,
there was no one else in the wide world who would take the trouble off
her hands.  What causes young people to "come out," but the noble
ambition of matrimony? What sends them trooping to watering-places?
What keeps them dancing till five o'clock in the morning through a
whole mortal season? What causes them to labour at pianoforte sonatas,
and to learn four songs from a fashionable master at a guinea a lesson,
and to play the harp if they have handsome arms and neat elbows, and to
wear Lincoln Green toxophilite hats and feathers, but that they may
bring down some "desirable" young man with those killing bows and
arrows of theirs? What causes respectable parents to take up their
carpets, set their houses topsy-turvy, and spend a fifth of their
year's income in ball suppers and iced champagne? Is it sheer love of
their species, and an unadulterated wish to see young people happy and
dancing? Psha! they want to marry their daughters; and, as honest Mrs.
Sedley has, in the depths of her kind heart, already arranged a score
of little schemes for the settlement of her Amelia, so also had our
beloved but unprotected Rebecca determined to do her very best to
secure the husband, who was even more necessary for her than for her
friend. She had a vivid imagination; she had, besides, read the Arabian
Nights and Guthrie's Geography; and it is a fact that while she was
dressing for dinner, and after she had asked Amelia whether her brother
was very rich, she had built for herself a most magnificent castle in
the air, of which she was mistress, with a husband somewhere in the
background (she had not seen him as yet, and his figure would not
therefore be very distinct); she had arrayed herself in an infinity of
shawls, turbans, and diamond necklaces, and had mounted upon an
elephant to the sound of the march in Bluebeard, in order to pay a
visit of ceremony to the Grand Mogul. Charming Alnaschar visions! it is
the happy privilege of youth to construct you, and many a fanciful
young creature besides Rebecca Sharp has indulged in these delightful
day-dreams ere now!

Joseph Sedley was twelve years older than his sister Amelia.  He was in
the East India Company's Civil Service, and his name appeared, at the
period of which we write, in the Bengal division of the East India
Register, as collector of Boggley Wollah, an honourable and lucrative
post, as everybody knows: in order to know to what higher posts Joseph
rose in the service, the reader is referred to the same periodical.

Boggley Wollah is situated in a fine, lonely, marshy, jungly district,
famous for snipe-shooting, and where not unfrequently you may flush a
tiger.  Ramgunge, where there is a magistrate, is only forty miles off,
and there is a cavalry station about thirty miles farther; so Joseph
wrote home to his parents, when he took possession of his
collectorship.  He had lived for about eight years of his life, quite
alone, at this charming place, scarcely seeing a Christian face except
twice a year, when the detachment arrived to carry off the revenues
which he had collected, to Calcutta.

Luckily, at this time he caught a liver complaint, for the cure of
which he returned to Europe, and which was the source of great comfort
and amusement to him in his native country.  He did not live with his
family while in London, but had lodgings of his own, like a gay young
bachelor.  Before he went to India he was too young to partake of the
delightful pleasures of a man about town, and plunged into them on his
return with considerable assiduity.  He drove his horses in the Park;
he dined at the fashionable taverns (for the Oriental Club was not as
yet invented); he frequented the theatres, as the mode was in those
days, or made his appearance at the opera, laboriously attired in
tights and a cocked hat.

On returning to India, and ever after, he used to talk of the pleasure
of this period of his existence with great enthusiasm, and give you to
understand that he and Brummel were the leading bucks of the day.  But
he was as lonely here as in his jungle at Boggley Wollah.  He scarcely
knew a single soul in the metropolis: and were it not for his doctor,
and the society of his blue-pill, and his liver complaint, he must have
died of loneliness. He was lazy, peevish, and a bon-vivant; the
appearance of a lady frightened him beyond measure; hence it was but
seldom that he joined the paternal circle in Russell Square, where
there was plenty of gaiety, and where the jokes of his good-natured old
father frightened his amour-propre.  His bulk caused Joseph much
anxious thought and alarm; now and then he would make a desperate
attempt to get rid of his superabundant fat; but his indolence and love
of good living speedily got the better of these endeavours at reform,
and he found himself again at his three meals a day.  He never was well
dressed; but he took the hugest pains to adorn his big person, and
passed many hours daily in that occupation. His valet made a fortune
out of his wardrobe: his toilet-table was covered with as many pomatums
and essences as ever were employed by an old beauty: he had tried, in
order to give himself a waist, every girth, stay, and waistband then
invented.  Like most fat men, he would have his clothes made too tight,
and took care they should be of the most brilliant colours and youthful
cut.  When dressed at length, in the afternoon, he would issue forth to
take a drive with nobody in the Park; and then would come back in order
to dress again and go and dine with nobody at the Piazza Coffee-House.
He was as vain as a girl; and perhaps his extreme shyness was one of
the results of his extreme vanity. If Miss Rebecca can get the better
of him, and at her first entrance into life, she is a young person of
no ordinary cleverness.

The first move showed considerable skill.  When she called Sedley a
very handsome man, she knew that Amelia would tell her mother, who
would probably tell Joseph, or who, at any rate, would be pleased by
the compliment paid to her son.  All mothers are.  If you had told
Sycorax that her son Caliban was as handsome as Apollo, she would have
been pleased, witch as she was.  Perhaps, too, Joseph Sedley would
overhear the compliment--Rebecca spoke loud enough--and he did hear,
and (thinking in his heart that he was a very fine man) the praise
thrilled through every fibre of his big body, and made it tingle with
pleasure.  Then, however, came a recoil.  "Is the girl making fun of
me?" he thought, and straightway he bounced towards the bell, and was
for retreating, as we have seen, when his father's jokes and his
mother's entreaties caused him to pause and stay where he was.  He
conducted the young lady down to dinner in a dubious and agitated frame
of mind. "Does she really think I am handsome?" thought he, "or is she
only making game of me?" We have talked of Joseph Sedley being as vain
as a girl.  Heaven help us! the girls have only to turn the tables, and
say of one of their own sex, "She is as vain as a man," and they will
have perfect reason.  The bearded creatures are quite as eager for
praise, quite as finikin over their toilettes, quite as proud of their
personal advantages, quite as conscious of their powers of fascination,
as any coquette in the world.

Downstairs, then, they went, Joseph very red and blushing, Rebecca very
modest, and holding her green eyes downwards.  She was dressed in
white, with bare shoulders as white as snow--the picture of youth,
unprotected innocence, and humble virgin simplicity. "I must be very
quiet," thought Rebecca, "and very much interested about India."

Now we have heard how Mrs. Sedley had prepared a fine curry for her
son, just as he liked it, and in the course of dinner a portion of this
dish was offered to Rebecca.  "What is it?" said she, turning an
appealing look to Mr. Joseph.

"Capital," said he.  His mouth was full of it: his face quite red with
the delightful exercise of gobbling. "Mother, it's as good as my own
curries in India."

"Oh, I must try some, if it is an Indian dish," said Miss Rebecca. "I
am sure everything must be good that comes from there."

"Give Miss Sharp some curry, my dear," said Mr. Sedley, laughing.

Rebecca had never tasted the dish before.

"Do you find it as good as everything else from India?" said Mr. Sedley.

"Oh, excellent!" said Rebecca, who was suffering tortures with the
cayenne pepper.

"Try a chili with it, Miss Sharp," said Joseph, really interested.

"A chili," said Rebecca, gasping.  "Oh yes!"  She thought a chili was
something cool, as its name imported, and was served with some. "How
fresh and green they look," she said, and put one into her mouth.  It
was hotter than the curry; flesh and blood could bear it no longer.
She laid down her fork.  "Water, for Heaven's sake, water!" she cried.
Mr. Sedley burst out laughing (he was a coarse man, from the Stock
Exchange, where they love all sorts of practical jokes).  "They are
real Indian, I assure you," said he.  "Sambo, give Miss Sharp some
water."

The paternal laugh was echoed by Joseph, who thought the joke capital.
The ladies only smiled a little.  They thought poor Rebecca suffered
too much.  She would have liked to choke old Sedley, but she swallowed
her mortification as well as she had the abominable curry before it,
and as soon as she could speak, said, with a comical, good-humoured
air, "I ought to have remembered the pepper which the Princess of
Persia puts in the cream-tarts in the Arabian Nights.  Do you put
cayenne into your cream-tarts in India, sir?"

Old Sedley began to laugh, and thought Rebecca was a good-humoured
girl.  Joseph simply said, "Cream-tarts, Miss? Our cream is very bad in
Bengal.  We generally use goats' milk; and, 'gad, do you know, I've got
to prefer it!"

"You won't like EVERYTHING from India now, Miss Sharp," said the old
gentleman; but when the ladies had retired after dinner, the wily old
fellow said to his son, "Have a care, Joe; that girl is setting her cap
at you."

"Pooh! nonsense!" said Joe, highly flattered.  "I recollect, sir, there
was a girl at Dumdum, a daughter of Cutler of the Artillery, and
afterwards married to Lance, the surgeon, who made a dead set at me in
the year '4--at me and Mulligatawney, whom I mentioned to you before
dinner--a devilish good fellow Mulligatawney--he's a magistrate at
Budgebudge, and sure to be in council in five years. Well, sir, the
Artillery gave a ball, and Quintin, of the King's 14th, said to me,
'Sedley,' said he, 'I bet you thirteen to ten that Sophy Cutler hooks
either you or Mulligatawney before the rains.' 'Done,' says I; and
egad, sir--this claret's very good.  Adamson's or Carbonell's?"

A slight snore was the only reply: the honest stockbroker was asleep,
and so the rest of Joseph's story was lost for that day. But he was
always exceedingly communicative in a man's party, and has told this
delightful tale many scores of times to his apothecary, Dr. Gollop,
when he came to inquire about the liver and the blue-pill.

Being an invalid, Joseph Sedley contented himself with a bottle of
claret besides his Madeira at dinner, and he managed a couple of plates
full of strawberries and cream, and twenty-four little rout cakes that
were lying neglected in a plate near him, and certainly (for novelists
have the privilege of knowing everything) he thought a great deal about
the girl upstairs.  "A nice, gay, merry young creature," thought he to
himself.  "How she looked at me when I picked up her handkerchief at
dinner!  She dropped it twice.  Who's that singing in the drawing-room?
'Gad! shall I go up and see?"

But his modesty came rushing upon him with uncontrollable force. His
father was asleep: his hat was in the hall: there was a hackney-coach
standing hard by in Southampton Row.  "I'll go and see the Forty
Thieves," said he, "and Miss Decamp's dance"; and he slipped away
gently on the pointed toes of his boots, and disappeared, without
waking his worthy parent.

"There goes Joseph," said Amelia, who was looking from the open windows
of the drawing-room, while Rebecca was singing at the piano.

"Miss Sharp has frightened him away," said Mrs. Sedley.  "Poor Joe, why
WILL he be so shy?"

The Green Silk Purse

Poor Joe's panic lasted for two or three days; during which he did not
visit the house, nor during that period did Miss Rebecca ever mention
his name.  She was all respectful gratitude to Mrs. Sedley; delighted
beyond measure at the Bazaars; and in a whirl of wonder at the theatre,
whither the good-natured lady took her.  One day, Amelia had a
headache, and could not go upon some party of pleasure to which the two
young people were invited: nothing could induce her friend to go
without her. "What! you who have shown the poor orphan what happiness
and love are for the first time in her life--quit YOU?  Never!"  and
the green eyes looked up to Heaven and filled with tears; and Mrs.
Sedley could not but own that her daughter's friend had a charming kind
heart of her own.

As for Mr. Sedley's jokes, Rebecca laughed at them with a cordiality
and perseverance which not a little pleased and softened that
good-natured gentleman.  Nor was it with the chiefs of the family alone
that Miss Sharp found favour.  She interested Mrs. Blenkinsop by
evincing the deepest sympathy in the raspberry-jam preserving, which
operation was then going on in the Housekeeper's room; she persisted in
calling Sambo "Sir," and "Mr. Sambo," to the delight of that attendant;
and she apologised to the lady's maid for giving her trouble in
venturing to ring the bell, with such sweetness and humility, that the
Servants' Hall was almost as charmed with her as the Drawing Room.

Once, in looking over some drawings which Amelia had sent from school,
Rebecca suddenly came upon one which caused her to burst into tears and
leave the room. It was on the day when Joe Sedley made his second
appearance.

Amelia hastened after her friend to know the cause of this display of
feeling, and the good-natured girl came back without her companion,
rather affected too.  "You know, her father was our drawing-master,
Mamma, at Chiswick, and used to do all the best parts of our drawings."

"My love! I'm sure I always heard Miss Pinkerton say that he did not
touch them--he only mounted them." "It was called mounting, Mamma.
Rebecca remembers the drawing, and her father working at it, and the
thought of it came upon her rather suddenly--and so, you know, she--"

"The poor child is all heart," said Mrs. Sedley.

"I wish she could stay with us another week," said Amelia.

"She's devilish like Miss Cutler that I used to meet at Dumdum, only
fairer.  She's married now to Lance, the Artillery Surgeon.  Do you
know, Ma'am, that once Quintin, of the 14th, bet me--"

"O Joseph, we know that story," said Amelia, laughing. "Never mind about
telling that; but persuade Mamma to write to Sir Something Crawley for
leave of absence for poor dear Rebecca: here she comes, her eyes red
with weeping."

"I'm better, now," said the girl, with the sweetest smile possible,
taking good-natured Mrs. Sedley's extended hand and kissing it
respectfully.  "How kind you all are to me! All," she added, with a
laugh, "except you, Mr. Joseph."

"Me!" said Joseph, meditating an instant departure. "Gracious Heavens!
Good Gad! Miss Sharp!'

"Yes; how could you be so cruel as to make me eat that horrid
pepper-dish at dinner, the first day I ever saw you? You are not so
good to me as dear Amelia."

"He doesn't know you so well," cried Amelia.

"I defy anybody not to be good to you, my dear," said her mother.

"The curry was capital; indeed it was," said Joe, quite gravely.
"Perhaps there was NOT enough citron juice in it--no, there was NOT."

"And the chilis?"

"By Jove, how they made you cry out!" said Joe, caught by the ridicule
of the circumstance, and exploding in a fit of laughter which ended
quite suddenly, as usual.

"I shall take care how I let YOU choose for me another time," said
Rebecca, as they went down again to dinner.  "I didn't think men were
fond of putting poor harmless girls to pain."

"By Gad, Miss Rebecca, I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

"No," said she, "I KNOW you wouldn't"; and then she gave him ever so
gentle a pressure with her little hand, and drew it back quite
frightened, and looked first for one instant in his face, and then down
at the carpet-rods; and I am not prepared to say that Joe's heart did
not thump at this little involuntary, timid, gentle motion of regard on
the part of the simple girl.

It was an advance, and as such, perhaps, some ladies of indisputable
correctness and gentility will condemn the action as immodest; but, you
see, poor dear Rebecca had all this work to do for herself.  If a
person is too poor to keep a servant, though ever so elegant, he must
sweep his own rooms: if a dear girl has no dear Mamma to settle matters
with the young man, she must do it for herself.  And oh, what a mercy
it is that these women do not exercise their powers oftener! We can't
resist them, if they do.  Let them show ever so little inclination, and
men go down on their knees at once: old or ugly, it is all the same.
And this I set down as a positive truth. A woman with fair
opportunities, and without an absolute hump, may marry WHOM SHE LIKES.
Only let us be thankful that the darlings are like the beasts of the
field, and don't know their own power.  They would overcome us entirely
if they did.

"Egad!" thought Joseph, entering the dining-room, "I exactly begin to
feel as I did at Dumdum with Miss Cutler." Many sweet little appeals,
half tender, half jocular, did Miss Sharp make to him about the dishes
at dinner; for by this time she was on a footing of considerable
familiarity with the family, and as for the girls, they loved each
other like sisters.  Young unmarried girls always do, if they are in a
house together for ten days.

As if bent upon advancing Rebecca's plans in every way--what must
Amelia do, but remind her brother of a promise made last Easter
holidays--"When I was a girl at school," said she, laughing--a promise
that he, Joseph, would take her to Vauxhall.  "Now," she said, "that
Rebecca is with us, will be the very time."

"O, delightful!" said Rebecca, going to clap her hands; but she
recollected herself, and paused, like a modest creature, as she was.

"To-night is not the night," said Joe.

"Well, to-morrow."

"To-morrow your Papa and I dine out," said Mrs. Sedley.

"You don't suppose that I'm going, Mrs. Sed?" said her husband, "and
that a woman of your years and size is to catch cold, in such an
abominable damp place?"

"The children must have someone with them," cried Mrs. Sedley.

"Let Joe go," said-his father, laughing.  "He's big enough." At which
speech even Mr. Sambo at the sideboard burst out laughing, and poor fat
Joe felt inclined to become a parricide almost.

"Undo his stays!" continued the pitiless old gentleman. "Fling some
water in his face, Miss Sharp, or carry him upstairs: the dear
creature's fainting.  Poor victim! carry him up; he's as light as a
feather!"

"If I stand this, sir, I'm d------!" roared Joseph.

"Order Mr. Jos's elephant, Sambo!" cried the father. "Send to Exeter
'Change, Sambo"; but seeing Jos ready almost to cry with vexation, the
old joker stopped his laughter, and said, holding out his hand to his
son, "It's all fair on the Stock Exchange, Jos--and, Sambo, never mind
the elephant, but give me and Mr. Jos a glass of Champagne.  Boney
himself hasn't got such in his cellar, my boy!"

A goblet of Champagne restored Joseph's equanimity, and before the
bottle was emptied, of which as an invalid he took two-thirds, he had
agreed to take the young ladies to Vauxhall.

"The girls must have a gentleman apiece," said the old gentleman. "Jos
will be sure to leave Emmy in the crowd, he will be so taken up with
Miss Sharp here.  Send to 96, and ask George Osborne if he'll come."

At this, I don't know in the least for what reason, Mrs. Sedley looked
at her husband and laughed.  Mr. Sedley's eyes twinkled in a manner
indescribably roguish, and he looked at Amelia; and Amelia, hanging
down her head, blushed as only young ladies of seventeen know how to
blush, and as Miss Rebecca Sharp never blushed in her life--at least
not since she was eight years old, and when she was caught stealing jam
out of a cupboard by her godmother.  "Amelia had better write a note,"
said her father; "and let George Osborne see what a beautiful
handwriting we have brought back from Miss Pinkerton's.  Do you
remember when you wrote to him to come on Twelfth-night, Emmy, and
spelt twelfth without the f?"

"That was years ago," said Amelia.

"It seems like yesterday, don't it, John?" said Mrs. Sedley to her
husband; and that night in a conversation which took place in a front
room in the second floor, in a sort of tent, hung round with chintz of
a rich and fantastic India pattern, and double with calico of a tender
rose-colour; in the interior of which species of marquee was a
featherbed, on which were two pillows, on which were two round red
faces, one in a laced nightcap, and one in a simple cotton one, ending
in a tassel--in a CURTAIN LECTURE, I say, Mrs. Sedley took her husband
to task for his cruel conduct to poor Joe.

"It was quite wicked of you, Mr. Sedley," said she, "to torment the
poor boy so."

"My dear," said the cotton-tassel in defence of his conduct, "Jos is a
great deal vainer than you ever were in your life, and that's saying a
good deal.  Though, some thirty years ago, in the year seventeen
hundred and eighty--what was it?--perhaps you had a right to be vain--I
don't say no.  But I've no patience with Jos and his dandified modesty.
It is out-Josephing Joseph, my dear, and all the while the boy is only
thinking of himself, and what a fine fellow he is.  I doubt, Ma'am, we
shall have some trouble with him yet.  Here is Emmy's little friend
making love to him as hard as she can; that's quite clear; and if she
does not catch him some other will. That man is destined to be a prey
to woman, as I am to go on 'Change every day.  It's a mercy he did not
bring us over a black daughter-in-law, my dear.  But, mark my words,
the first woman who fishes for him, hooks him."

"She shall go off to-morrow, the little artful creature," said Mrs.
Sedley, with great energy.

"Why not she as well as another, Mrs. Sedley? The girl's a white face
at any rate.  I don't care who marries him.  Let Joe please himself."

And presently the voices of the two speakers were hushed, or were
replaced by the gentle but unromantic music of the nose; and save when
the church bells tolled the hour and the watchman called it, all was
silent at the house of John Sedley, Esquire, of Russell Square, and the
Stock Exchange.

When morning came, the good-natured Mrs. Sedley no longer thought of
executing her threats with regard to Miss Sharp; for though nothing is
more keen, nor more common, nor more justifiable, than maternal
jealousy, yet she could not bring herself to suppose that the little,
humble, grateful, gentle governess would dare to look up to such a
magnificent personage as the Collector of Boggley Wollah. The petition,
too, for an extension of the young lady's leave of absence had already
been despatched, and it would be difficult to find a pretext for
abruptly dismissing her.

And as if all things conspired in favour of the gentle Rebecca, the
very elements (although she was not inclined at first to acknowledge
their action in her behalf) interposed to aid her.  For on the evening
appointed for the Vauxhall party, George Osborne having come to dinner,
and the elders of the house having departed, according to invitation,
to dine with Alderman Balls at Highbury Barn, there came on such a
thunder-storm as only happens on Vauxhall nights, and as obliged the
young people, perforce, to remain at home.  Mr. Osborne did not seem in
the least disappointed at this occurrence. He and Joseph Sedley drank a
fitting quantity of port-wine, tete-a-tete, in the dining-room, during
the drinking of which Sedley told a number of his best Indian stories;
for he was extremely talkative in man's society; and afterwards Miss
Amelia Sedley did the honours of the drawing-room; and these four young
persons passed such a comfortable evening together, that they declared
they were rather glad of the thunder-storm than otherwise, which had
caused them to put off their visit to Vauxhall.

Osborne was Sedley's godson, and had been one of the family any time
these three-and-twenty years.  At six weeks old, he had received from
John Sedley a present of a silver cup; at six months old, a coral with
gold whistle and bells; from his youth upwards he was "tipped"
regularly by the old gentleman at Christmas: and on going back to
school, he remembered perfectly well being thrashed by Joseph Sedley,
when the latter was a big, swaggering hobbadyhoy, and George an
impudent urchin of ten years old.  In a word, George was as familiar
with the family as such daily acts of kindness and intercourse could
make him.

"Do you remember, Sedley, what a fury you were in, when I cut off the
tassels of your Hessian boots, and how Miss--hem!--how Amelia rescued
me from a beating, by falling down on her knees and crying out to her
brother Jos, not to beat little George?"

Jos remembered this remarkable circumstance perfectly well, but vowed
that he had totally forgotten it.

"Well, do you remember coming down in a gig to Dr. Swishtail's to see
me, before you went to India, and giving me half a guinea and a pat on
the head? I always had an idea that you were at least seven feet high,
and was quite astonished at your return from India to find you no
taller than myself."

"How good of Mr. Sedley to go to your school and give you the money!"
exclaimed Rebecca, in accents of extreme delight.

"Yes, and after I had cut the tassels of his boots too. Boys never
forget those tips at school, nor the givers."

"I delight in Hessian boots," said Rebecca.  Jos Sedley, who admired
his own legs prodigiously, and always wore this ornamental chaussure,
was extremely pleased at this remark, though he drew his legs under his
chair as it was made.

"Miss Sharp!" said George Osborne, "you who are so clever an artist,
you must make a grand historical picture of the scene of the boots.
Sedley shall be represented in buckskins, and holding one of the
injured boots in one hand; by the other he shall have hold of my
shirt-frill.  Amelia shall be kneeling near him, with her little hands
up; and the picture shall have a grand allegorical title, as the
frontispieces have in the Medulla and the spelling-book."

"I shan't have time to do it here," said Rebecca.  "I'll do it
when--when I'm gone." And she dropped her voice, and looked so sad and
piteous, that everybody felt how cruel her lot was, and how sorry they
would be to part with her.

"O that you could stay longer, dear Rebecca," said Amelia.

"Why?" answered the other, still more sadly.  "That I may be only the
more unhap--unwilling to lose you?" And she turned away her head.
Amelia began to give way to that natural infirmity of tears which, we
have said, was one of the defects of this silly little thing.  George
Osborne looked at the two young women with a touched curiosity; and
Joseph Sedley heaved something very like a sigh out of his big chest,
as he cast his eyes down towards his favourite Hessian boots.

"Let us have some music, Miss Sedley--Amelia," said George, who felt at
that moment an extraordinary, almost irresistible impulse to seize the
above-mentioned young woman in his arms, and to kiss her in the face of
the company; and she looked at him for a moment, and if I should say
that they fell in love with each other at that single instant of time,
I should perhaps be telling an untruth, for the fact is that these two
young people had been bred up by their parents for this very purpose,
and their banns had, as it were, been read in their respective families
any time these ten years.  They went off to the piano, which was
situated, as pianos usually are, in the back drawing-room; and as it
was rather dark, Miss Amelia, in the most unaffected way in the world,
put her hand into Mr. Osborne's, who, of course, could see the way
among the chairs and ottomans a great deal better than she could.  But
this arrangement left Mr. Joseph Sedley tete-a-tete with Rebecca, at
the drawing-room table, where the latter was occupied in knitting a
green silk purse.

"There is no need to ask family secrets," said Miss Sharp.  "Those two
have told theirs."

"As soon as he gets his company," said Joseph, "I believe the affair is
settled.  George Osborne is a capital fellow."

"And your sister the dearest creature in the world," said Rebecca.
"Happy the man who wins her!" With this, Miss Sharp gave a great sigh.

When two unmarried persons get together, and talk upon such delicate
subjects as the present, a great deal of confidence and intimacy is
presently established between them.  There is no need of giving a
special report of the conversation which now took place between Mr.
Sedley and the young lady; for the conversation, as may be judged from
the foregoing specimen, was not especially witty or eloquent; it seldom
is in private societies, or anywhere except in very high-flown and
ingenious novels. As there was music in the next room, the talk was
carried on, of course, in a low and becoming tone, though, for the
matter of that, the couple in the next apartment would not have been
disturbed had the talking been ever so loud, so occupied were they with
their own pursuits.

Almost for the first time in his life, Mr. Sedley found himself
talking, without the least timidity or hesitation, to a person of the
other sex.  Miss Rebecca asked him a great number of questions about
India, which gave him an opportunity of narrating many interesting
anecdotes about that country and himself.  He described the balls at
Government House, and the manner in which they kept themselves cool in
the hot weather, with punkahs, tatties, and other contrivances; and he
was very witty regarding the number of Scotchmen whom Lord Minto, the
Governor-General, patronised; and then he described a tiger-hunt; and
the manner in which the mahout of his elephant had been pulled off his
seat by one of the infuriated animals.  How delighted Miss Rebecca was
at the Government balls, and how she laughed at the stories of the
Scotch aides-de-camp, and called Mr. Sedley a sad wicked satirical
creature; and how frightened she was at the story of the elephant! "For
your mother's sake, dear Mr. Sedley," she said, "for the sake of all
your friends, promise NEVER to go on one of those horrid expeditions."

"Pooh, pooh, Miss Sharp," said he, pulling up his shirt-collars; "the
danger makes the sport only the pleasanter." He had never been but once
at a tiger-hunt, when the accident in question occurred, and when he
was half killed--not by the tiger, but by the fright. And as he talked
on, he grew quite bold, and actually had the audacity to ask Miss
Rebecca for whom she was knitting the green silk purse? He was quite
surprised and delighted at his own graceful familiar manner.

"For any one who wants a purse," replied Miss Rebecca, looking at him
in the most gentle winning way. Sedley was going to make one of the
most eloquent speeches possible, and had begun--"O Miss Sharp, how--"
when some song which was performed in the other room came to an end,
and caused him to hear his own voice so distinctly that he stopped,
blushed, and blew his nose in great agitation.

"Did you ever hear anything like your brother's eloquence?" whispered
Mr. Osborne to Amelia.  "Why, your friend has worked miracles."

"The more the better," said Miss Amelia; who, like almost all women who
are worth a pin, was a match-maker in her heart, and would have been
delighted that Joseph should carry back a wife to India.  She had, too,
in the course of this few days' constant intercourse, warmed into a
most tender friendship for Rebecca, and discovered a million of virtues
and amiable qualities in her which she had not perceived when they were
at Chiswick together.  For the affection of young ladies is of as rapid
growth as Jack's bean-stalk, and reaches up to the sky in a night.  It
is no blame to them that after marriage this Sehnsucht nach der Liebe
subsides.  It is what sentimentalists, who deal in very big words, call
a yearning after the Ideal, and simply means that women are commonly
not satisfied until they have husbands and children on whom they may
centre affections, which are spent elsewhere, as it were, in small
change.

Having expended her little store of songs, or having stayed long enough
in the back drawing-room, it now appeared proper to Miss Amelia to ask
her friend to sing.  "You would not have listened to me," she said to
Mr. Osborne (though she knew she was telling a fib), "had you heard
Rebecca first."

"I give Miss Sharp warning, though," said Osborne, "that, right or
wrong, I consider Miss Amelia Sedley the first singer in the world."

"You shall hear," said Amelia; and Joseph Sedley was actually polite
enough to carry the candles to the piano. Osborne hinted that he should
like quite as well to sit in the dark; but Miss Sedley, laughing,
declined to bear him company any farther, and the two accordingly
followed Mr. Joseph.  Rebecca sang far better than her friend (though
of course Osborne was free to keep his opinion), and exerted herself to
the utmost, and, indeed, to the wonder of Amelia, who had never known
her perform so well.  She sang a French song, which Joseph did not
understand in the least, and which George confessed he did not
understand, and then a number of those simple ballads which were the
fashion forty years ago, and in which British tars, our King, poor
Susan, blue-eyed Mary, and the like, were the principal themes. They
are not, it is said, very brilliant, in a musical point of view, but
contain numberless good-natured, simple appeals to the affections,
which people understood better than the milk-and-water lagrime,
sospiri, and felicita of the eternal Donizettian music with which we
are favoured now-a-days.

Conversation of a sentimental sort, befitting the subject, was carried
on between the songs, to which Sambo, after he had brought the tea, the
delighted cook, and even Mrs. Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, condescended
to listen on the landing-place.

Among these ditties was one, the last of the concert, and to the
following effect:

Ah! bleak and barren was the moor, Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,
The cottage roof was shelter'd sure, The cottage hearth was bright and
warm--An orphan boy the lattice pass'd, And, as he mark'd its cheerful
glow, Felt doubly keen the midnight blast, And doubly cold the fallen
snow.

They mark'd him as he onward prest, With fainting heart and weary limb;
Kind voices bade him turn and rest, And gentle faces welcomed him. The
dawn is up--the guest is gone, The cottage hearth is blazing still;
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone! Hark to the wind upon the hill!

It was the sentiment of the before-mentioned words, "When I'm gone,"
over again.  As she came to the last words, Miss Sharp's "deep-toned
voice faltered." Everybody felt the allusion to her departure, and to
her hapless orphan state.  Joseph Sedley, who was fond of music, and
soft-hearted, was in a state of ravishment during the performance of
the song, and profoundly touched at its conclusion. If he had had the
courage; if George and Miss Sedley had remained, according to the
former's proposal, in the farther room, Joseph Sedley's bachelorhood
would have been at an end, and this work would never have been written.
But at the close of the ditty, Rebecca quitted the piano, and giving
her hand to Amelia, walked away into the front drawing-room twilight;
and, at this moment, Mr. Sambo made his appearance with a tray,
containing sandwiches, jellies, and some glittering glasses and
decanters, on which Joseph Sedley's attention was immediately fixed.
When the parents of the house of Sedley returned from their
dinner-party, they found the young people so busy in talking, that they
had not heard the arrival of the carriage, and Mr. Joseph was in the
act of saying, "My dear Miss Sharp, one little teaspoonful of jelly to
recruit you after your immense--your--your delightful exertions."

"Bravo, Jos!" said Mr. Sedley; on hearing the bantering of which
well-known voice, Jos instantly relapsed into an alarmed silence, and
quickly took his departure. He did not lie awake all night thinking
whether or not he was in love with Miss Sharp; the passion of love
never interfered with the appetite or the slumber of Mr. Joseph Sedley;
but he thought to himself how delightful it would be to hear such songs
as those after Cutcherry--what a distinguee girl she was--how she could
speak French better than the Governor-General's lady herself--and what
a sensation she would make at the Calcutta balls. "It's evident the
poor devil's in love with me," thought he.  "She is just as rich as
most of the girls who come out to India.  I might go farther, and fare
worse, egad!" And in these meditations he fell asleep.

How Miss Sharp lay awake, thinking, will he come or not to-morrow? need
not be told here.  To-morrow came, and, as sure as fate, Mr. Joseph
Sedley made his appearance before luncheon.  He had never been known
before to confer such an honour on Russell Square. George Osborne was
somehow there already (sadly "putting out" Amelia, who was writing to
her twelve dearest friends at Chiswick Mall), and Rebecca was employed
upon her yesterday's work.  As Joe's buggy drove up, and while, after
his usual thundering knock and pompous bustle at the door, the
ex-Collector of Boggley Wollah laboured up stairs to the drawing-room,
knowing glances were telegraphed between Osborne and Miss Sedley, and
the pair, smiling archly, looked at Rebecca, who actually blushed as
she bent her fair ringlets over her knitting.  How her heart beat as
Joseph appeared--Joseph, puffing from the staircase in shining creaking
boots--Joseph, in a new waistcoat, red with heat and nervousness, and
blushing behind his wadded neckcloth.  It was a nervous moment for all;
and as for Amelia, I think she was more frightened than even the people
most concerned.

Sambo, who flung open the door and announced Mr. Joseph, followed
grinning, in the Collector's rear, and bearing two handsome nosegays of
flowers, which the monster had actually had the gallantry to purchase
in Covent Garden Market that morning--they were not as big as the
haystacks which ladies carry about with them now-a-days, in cones of
filigree paper; but the young women were delighted with the gift, as
Joseph presented one to each, with an exceedingly solemn bow.

"Bravo, Jos!" cried Osborne.

"Thank you, dear Joseph," said Amelia, quite ready to kiss her brother,
if he were so minded.  (And I think for a kiss from such a dear
creature as Amelia, I would purchase all Mr. Lee's conservatories out
of hand.)

"O heavenly, heavenly flowers!" exclaimed Miss Sharp, and smelt them
delicately, and held them to her bosom, and cast up her eyes to the
ceiling, in an ecstasy of admiration.  Perhaps she just looked first
into the bouquet, to see whether there was a billet-doux hidden among
the flowers; but there was no letter.

"Do they talk the language of flowers at Boggley Wollah, Sedley?" asked
Osborne, laughing.

"Pooh, nonsense!" replied the sentimental youth. "Bought 'em at
Nathan's; very glad you like 'em; and eh, Amelia, my dear, I bought a
pine-apple at the same time, which I gave to Sambo.  Let's have it for
tiffin; very cool and nice this hot weather." Rebecca said she had
never tasted a pine, and longed beyond everything to taste one.

So the conversation went on.  I don't know on what pretext Osborne left
the room, or why, presently, Amelia went away, perhaps to superintend
the slicing of the pine-apple; but Jos was left alone with Rebecca, who
had resumed her work, and the green silk and the shining needles were
quivering rapidly under her white slender fingers.

"What a beautiful, BYOO-OOTIFUL song that was you sang last night, dear
Miss Sharp," said the Collector.  "It made me cry almost; 'pon my
honour it did."

"Because you have a kind heart, Mr. Joseph; all the Sedleys have, I
think."

"It kept me awake last night, and I was trying to hum it this morning,
in bed; I was, upon my honour.  Gollop, my doctor, came in at eleven
(for I'm a sad invalid, you know, and see Gollop every day), and, 'gad!
there I was, singing away like--a robin."

"O you droll creature! Do let me hear you sing it."

"Me? No, you, Miss Sharp; my dear Miss Sharp, do sing it."  "Not now,
Mr. Sedley," said Rebecca, with a sigh.  "My spirits are not equal to
it; besides, I must finish the purse.  Will you help me, Mr. Sedley?"
And before he had time to ask how, Mr. Joseph Sedley, of the East India
Company's service, was actually seated tete-a-tete with a young lady,
looking at her with a most killing expression; his arms stretched out
before her in an imploring attitude, and his hands bound in a web of
green silk, which she was unwinding.

In this romantic position Osborne and Amelia found the interesting
pair, when they entered to announce that tiffin was ready.  The skein
of silk was just wound round the card; but Mr. Jos had never spoken.

"I am sure he will to-night, dear," Amelia said, as she pressed
Rebecca's hand; and Sedley, too, had communed with his soul, and said
to himself, "'Gad, I'll pop the question at Vauxhall."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Miss Amelia Sedley and Becky Sharp prepare to leave Chiswick Mall for Amelia's home. Miss Pinkerton, who runs the academy, autographs a copy of Dr. Johnson's dictionary for Amelia, whose father is rich. The orphaned Becky, having neither money nor position does not rate one. Miss Pinkerton writes Amelia's mother a stilted and complimentary letter in regard to Amelia, and adds a postscript that Miss Sharp should stay only ten days, as she has a position in a family of distinction. With this tender missive, she includes Amelia's bill. Miss Jemima, sister of Miss Pinkerton, tries to give Becky a dictionary, but Becky throws it into the garden as the girls' coach drives off. Everyone loves Amelia; no one cares for Becky. Becky's look of hatred and her vindictive smile as she hurls the book horrify Amelia. When Becky wishes that Miss Pinkerton were at the bottom of the Thames, Amelia remonstrates with her. Becky replies that revenge may be wicked, but it's natural. Miss Pinkerton has taken Becky into the academy and given her free board and lodging, and the chance to learn what she can plus a few guineas a year. In return, Becky is to teach French. When Miss Pinkerton wants Becky to give free piano lessons, Becky defies and refuses. Becky hates Miss Pinkerton, ridicules her, feels no gratitude. At night when Becky has walked the floor and sobbed, both she and her acquaintances think it is grief for her father, but actually it is resentment at being confined, without position or money. When Miss Pinkerton can stand Becky no longer, she secures a position for her with Sir Pitt Crawley. Becky finds out that Amelia's brother, Joseph, is not married. She determines to marry him, if possible, and never go on to the Crawleys. Joseph's obesity, emphasized by his loud and sporty clothes, makes people think of an elephant. His shyness stymies his ambition to be a lady-killer. With affected dignity he extends two fingers for his sister to shake. Becky makes an impression, saying aloud how handsome Joseph is, then acting "timid as a fawn," and casting her eyes down and not daring to look at him. Joseph, flushed with embarrassment, pulls the bell rope loose. Mr. Sedley, an aggressive tease, comes in "rattling his seals like a true British merchant." He goads Joseph into taking Becky down to dinner and urges Becky to eat curry, which is very hot. While her mouth is afire, Joseph asks her if she wants a chili, which she thinks must be cool because of its name. Becky's near strangulation amuses Mr. Sedley and Joseph. When Joseph absents himself for two or three days, Becky endears herself to the Sedley household. On the night Amelia, Becky, George Osborne, and Joseph plan to go to Vauxhall, it rains. They stay home, visit, sing, and reminisce. Joseph tells Rebecca stories about India and almost proposes to her; but food is served, and appetite and slumber come before the passion of love with Joseph, the Collector of Boggley Wollab. The next day when Joseph brings flowers, Becky gets him to hold her knitting yarn for her.