But, over and above these mellowing features of a respectable ancestry,
the annunciating Angel of the Great Exhibition of_ 1851 _has spread a
brooding wing. And while the older articles are treasured on account of
family association, the younger and newer stand erected in places of
honour by reason of an intrinsic beauty never previously attained to.
Through this chamber the dashing crinoline has wheeled the too vast orb of
its fate, and left fifty years after (if we may measure the times of
Heaven by the ticks of an earthly chronometer) a mark which nothing is
likely to erase. Upon the small table, where Hannah the servant deposits
the lamp, lies a piece of crochet-work. The fair hands that have been
employed on it are folded on a lap of corded silk representing the
fashions of the nineties, and the grey-haired beauty (that once was) sits
contemplative, wearing a cap of creamish lace, tastefully arranged, not
unaware that in the entering lamp-light, and under the fire's soft glow of
approval, she presents to her domestic's eye an improving picture of
gentility. It is to Miss Julia Robinson's credit--and she herself places
it there emphatically--that she always treats servants humanly, though at
a distance. And when she now speaks she confers her slight remark just a
little as though it were a favour_.

JULIA. How the days are drawing out, Hannah.

HANNAH. Yes, Ma'am; nicely, aren't they?

(_For Hannah, being old-established, may say a thing or two not in the
strict order. In fact, it may be said that, up to a well-understood point,
character is encouraged in her, and is allowed to peep through in her
remarks_.)

JULIA. What time is it?