An article as necessary to a lady in this position as her brougham or

her bouquet is her companion. I have always admired the way in which

the tender creatures, who cannot exist without sympathy, hire an

exceedingly plain friend of their own sex from whom they are almost

inseparable. The sight of that inevitable woman in her faded gown

seated behind her dear friend in the opera-box, or occupying the back

seat of the barouche, is always a wholesome and moral one to me, as

jolly a reminder as that of the Death's-head which figured in the

repasts of Egyptian bon-vivants, a strange sardonic memorial of Vanity

Fair. What? even battered, brazen, beautiful, conscienceless,

heartless, Mrs. Firebrace, whose father died of her shame: even

lovely, daring Mrs. Mantrap, who will ride at any fence which any man

in England will take, and who drives her greys in the park, while her

mother keeps a huckster's stall in Bath still--even those who are so

bold, one might fancy they could face anything dare not face the world

without a female friend. They must have somebody to cling to, the

affectionate creatures! And you will hardly see them in any public

place without a shabby companion in a dyed silk, sitting somewhere in

the shade close behind them.

"Rawdon," said Becky, very late one night, as a party of gentlemen were

seated round her crackling drawing-room fire (for the men came to her

house to finish the night; and she had ice and coffee for them, the

best in London): "I must have a sheep-dog."

"A what?" said Rawdon, looking up from an ecarte table.

"A sheep-dog!" said young Lord Southdown. "My dear Mrs. Crawley, what

a fancy! Why not have a Danish dog? I know of one as big as a

camel-leopard, by Jove. It would almost pull your brougham. Or a

Persian greyhound, eh? (I propose, if you please); or a little pug that

would go into one of Lord Steyne's snuff-boxes? There's a man at

Bayswater got one with such a nose that you might--I mark the king and

play--that you might hang your hat on it."

"I mark the trick," Rawdon gravely said. He attended to his game

commonly and didn't much meddle with the conversation, except when it

was about horses and betting.

"What CAN you want with a shepherd's dog?" the lively little Southdown

continued.

"I mean a MORAL shepherd's dog," said Becky, laughing and looking up at

Lord Steyne.

"What the devil's that?" said his Lordship.

"A dog to keep the wolves off me," Rebecca continued. "A companion."

"Dear little innocent lamb, you want one," said the marquis; and his

jaw thrust out, and he began to grin hideously, his little eyes leering

towards Rebecca.

The great Lord of Steyne was standing by the fire sipping coffee. The

fire crackled and blazed pleasantly There was a score of candles

sparkling round the mantel piece, in all sorts of quaint sconces, of

gilt and bronze and porcelain. They lighted up Rebecca's figure to

admiration, as she sat on a sofa covered with a pattern of gaudy

flowers. She was in a pink dress that looked as fresh as a rose; her

dazzling white arms and shoulders were half-covered with a thin hazy

scarf through which they sparkled; her hair hung in curls round her

neck; one of her little feet peeped out from the fresh crisp folds of

the silk: the prettiest little foot in the prettiest little sandal in

the finest silk stocking in the world.




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