'How can it say so, when it is blooming in the front room like a little
rose in a demnition flower-pot?' urged Mantalini. 'May its poppet come
in and talk?'

'Certainly not,' replied Madame: 'you know I never allow you here. Go
along!'

The poppet, however, encouraged perhaps by the relenting tone of this
reply, ventured to rebel, and, stealing into the room, made towards
Madame Mantalini on tiptoe, blowing her a kiss as he came along.

'Why will it vex itself, and twist its little face into bewitching
nutcrackers?' said Mantalini, putting his left arm round the waist of
his life and soul, and drawing her towards him with his right.

'Oh! I can't bear you,' replied his wife.

'Not--eh, not bear ME!' exclaimed Mantalini. 'Fibs, fibs. It couldn't
be. There's not a woman alive, that could tell me such a thing to my
face--to my own face.' Mr Mantalini stroked his chin, as he said this,
and glanced complacently at an opposite mirror.

'Such destructive extravagance,' reasoned his wife, in a low tone.

'All in its joy at having gained such a lovely creature, such a little
Venus, such a demd, enchanting, bewitching, engrossing, captivating
little Venus,' said Mantalini.

'See what a situation you have placed me in!' urged Madame.