at Shoolbred's, when you may be sure she treated herself likewise to
a neat, sweet pretty half-mourning (for the Court, you know, is in
mourning)--a neat sweet barege, or calimanco, or bombazine, or tiffany,
or some such thing; but Madame Camille, of Regent Street, made it up,
and Rosa looked like an angel in it on the night of her little dinner.

"And, my sweet," she continued, after the curtains had been accorded,
"mamma and I have been talking about the dinner. She wants to make
it very expensive, which I cannot allow. I have been thinking of a
delightful and economical plan, and you, my sweetest Fitz, must put it
into execution."

"I have cooked a mutton-chop when I was in chambers," Fitz said with a
laugh. "Am I to put on a cap and an apron?"

"No: but you are to go to the 'Megatherium Club' (where, you wretch,
you are always going without my leave), and you are to beg Monsieur
Mirobolant, your famous cook, to send you one of his best aides-de-camp,
as I know he will, and with his aid we can dress the dinner and
the confectionery at home for ALMOST NOTHING, and we can show those
purse-proud Topham Sawyers and Rowdys that the HUMBLE COTTAGE can
furnish forth an elegant entertainment as well as the gilded halls of
wealth."

Fitz agreed to speak to Monsieur Mirobolant. If Rosa had had a fancy
for the cook of the Prime Minister, I believe the deluded creature of a
husband would have asked Lord John for the loan of him.