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"Very well; you sha'n't be put there," he says. "But nevertheless you must be prepared for the fact that you will undoubtedly be stared at by the common herd, whether you are in the National Gallery or out of it." "It is really hardly worth talking about," she says, grandly. "I was foolish to lay so great a stress on such a trifling matter. It doesn't signify, not in the least. But—but," the blood mounting to her brow, "if ever you speak of it again,—if ever you even mention the word 'heather,'—I shall hate you!" "How d'ye do, Mrs. Rodney? Is Lady Rodney at home? I hope so," says Mrs. Carson, a fat, florid, smiling, impossible person of fifty. "To see poor Kitty Maloney, his widow. Last year she was my servant. This year she married; and now—here is the end of everything—for her.".