We had friends at Pumpington Wells, and good ones too, but no friend
enlightened us; that task devolved upon an acquaintance, a little slim
elderly man, so frivolous and so garrulous, that he only wanted a
turban, some rouge, and a red satin gown, to become the most perfect of
old women.

He shook his head simultaneously as he shook our hands, and his little
grey eyes twinkled with delight, while he professed to feel for us both
the deepest commiseration.

"You are cut," said he; "its all up with you in Pumpington Wells."

"Pray be explicit," said I faintly, and dreading some cruel calumny, or
plot against my peace.

"You've done the most impolitic thing! the most hazardous"--

"Sir!" said my husband, grasping his cane.

"I lament it," said the little man, turning to me; "your book has done
it for you."

I thought of the reviews, and trembled.

"How _could_ you," continued our tormentor, "how could you put the
Pumpington Wells people in your novel?"

"The Pumpington Wells people!--Nonsense; there are good and bad people
in my novel, and there are good and bad people in Pumpington Wells; but
you flatter the good, if you think that when I dipped my pen in praise,