(It is unanimously
understood by the young ladies that he is lawfully entitled to this
privilege, and that if Miss Twinkleton disputed it, she would be
instantly taken up and transported.) When his ring at the gate-
bell is expected, or takes place, every young lady who can, under
any pretence, look out of window, looks out of window; while every
young lady who is 'practising,' practises out of time; and the
French class becomes so demoralised that the mark goes round as
briskly as the bottle at a convivial party in the last century.
On the afternoon of the day next after the dinner of two at the
gatehouse, the bell is rung with the usual fluttering results.
'Mr. Edwin Drood to see Miss Rosa.'
This is the announcement of the parlour-maid in chief. Miss
Twinkleton, with an exemplary air of melancholy on her, turns to
the sacrifice, and says, 'You may go down, my dear.' Miss Bud goes
down, followed by all eyes.
Mr. Edwin Drood is waiting in Miss Twinkleton's own parlour: a
dainty room, with nothing more directly scholastic in it than a
terrestrial and a celestial globe. These expressive machines imply
(to parents and guardians) that even when Miss Twinkleton retires
into the bosom of privacy, duty may at any moment compel her to
become a sort of Wandering Jewess, scouring the earth and soaring
through the skies in search of knowledge for her pupils.
The last new maid, who has never seen the young gentleman Miss Rosa
is engaged to, and who is making his acquaintance between the
hinges of the open door, left open for the purpose, stumbles
guiltily down the kitchen stairs, as a charming little apparition,
with its face concealed by a little silk apron thrown over its
head, glides into the parlour.
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