"But it's worth the pain of hearing, only to know that Mrs. Nickleby recovered it, isn't it. Pluck?" cried Mr. Pyke.
"That is the circumstance which gives it such a thrilling interest," replied Mr. Pluck.
"But come," said Pyke, as if suddenly recollecting himself; "we must not forget our mission in the pleasure of this interview. We come on a mission, Mrs. Nickleby."
"On a mission," exclaimed that good lady, to whose mind a definitive proposal of marriage for Kate at once presented itself in lively colours.
"From Sir Mulberry," replied Pyke. "You must be very dull here."
"Rather dull, I confess," said Mrs. Nickleby.
"We bring the compliments of Sir Mulberry Hawk, and a thousand entreaties that you'll take a seat in a private box at the play to-night," said Mr. Pluck.
"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Nickleby," "I never go out at all, never."
"And that is the very reason, my dear Mrs. Nickleby, why you should go out to-night," retorted Mr. Pluck. "Pyke, entreat Mrs. Nickleby."
"Oh, pray do," said Pyke.
"You positively must," urged Pluck.
"You are very kind," said Mrs. Nickleby hesitating; "but—"
"There's not a but in the case, my dear Mrs. Nickleby," remonstrated Mr. Pluck; "not such a word in the vocabulary. Your brother-in-law joins us, Lord Frederick joins us, Sir Mulberry joins us, Pyke joins us—a refusal is out of the question. Sir Mulberry sends a carriage for you—twenty minutes before seven to the moment—you'll not be so cruel as to disappoint the whole party, Mrs. Nickleby?"
"You are so very pressing, that I scarcely know what to say," replied the worthy lady.
"Say nothing; not a word, not a word, my dearest madam," urged Mr. Pluck. "Mrs. Nickleby," said that excellent gentleman, lowering his voice, "there is the most trifling, the most excusable breach of confidence in what I am about to say; and yet if my friend Pyke there overheard it—such is that man's delicate sense of honour, Mrs. Nickleby—he'd have me out before dinner-time."
Mrs. Nickleby cast an apprehensive glance at the warlike Pyke, who had walked to the window;, and Mr. Pluck, squeezing her hand, went on—
"Your daughter has made a conquest—a conquest on which I may congratulate you. Sir Mulberry, my dear ma'am, Sir Mulberry is her devoted slave. Hem!"
"Hah!" cried Mr. Pyke at this juncture, snatching something from the chimney-piece with a theatrical air. "What is this! what do I behold!"
"What do you behold, my dear fellow?" asked Mr. Pluck.
"It is the face, the countenance, the expression," cried Mr. Pyke, falling into his chair with a miniature in his hand; "feebly portrayed, imperfectly caught, but still the face, the countenance, the expression."
