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 that the Morning Coat had an overpowering desire to clasp her to its braided bosom.

"Good at melodrama no doubt, my dear," said Grandmamma, "in the Surrey theaters; but to my mind wholly unfitted to carry on the great tradition of Edward Bean and John Kendall."

It is by no means clear that the Braided Morning Coat was able to enjoy Grandmamma's caustic criticism of the present hopelessly inferior histrionic age as much as it might have done, because there was that sinking sensation somewhere about the third button which somehow seemed to suggest that it was going to be its turn presently. And although a very ordinary sort of coat, which put forth no special claim to be endowed with the gift of prophecy, in this it was not a great way off the mark.

When at last its turn came, it seemed to arrive rather suddenly. It was when the Chayney tea and the cake and bread-and-butter, having ceased to have attractions, were removed by Mary, still acting as deputy to Jane the parlor-maid.

"Mr. Shelmerdine," said the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall, "I am given to understand that you have been kind enough to make my granddaughter a proposal of marriage?"

"I hope you don't mind, ma'am," murmured the Braided Morning Coat, whose diction, however, although