Wowski's drag, Lord Martingale's carriage, Mr. Deuceace's cab drive up
there time after time; and (having remarked previously the pastry-cook's
men arrive with the trays and entrees), we have known that this widow
was giving dinners at the little house in Pocklington Square--dinners
such as decent people could not hope to enjoy.

My excellent friend has been in a perfect fury when Mrs. Stafford
Molyneux, in a black velvet riding-habit, with a hat and feather, has
come out and mounted an odious gray horse, and has cantered down the
street, followed by her groom upon a bay.

"It won't last long--it must end in shame and humiliation," my dear Miss
C. has remarked, disappointed that the tiles and chimney-pots did not
fall down upon Mrs. Stafford Molyneux's head, and crush that cantering,
audacious woman.

But it was a consolation to see her when she walked out with a French
maid, a couple of children, and a little dog hanging on to her by a blue
ribbon. She always held down her head then--her head with the drooping
black ringlets. The virtuous and well-disposed avoided her. I have
seen the Square-keeper himself look puzzled as she passed; and Lady
Kicklebury walking by with Miss K., her daughter, turn away from Mrs.
Stafford Molyneux, and fling back at her a ruthless Parthian glance that
ought to have killed any woman of decent sensibility.

That wretched woman, meanwhile, with her rouged cheeks (for rouge it
IS, Miss Clapperclaw swears, and who is a better judge?) has walked on
conscious, and yet somehow braving out the Street. You could read pride
of her beauty, pride of her fine clothes, shame of her position, in her
downcast black eyes.