and not furnished with any more individual taste than that which gave its generic stamp to the great Victorian period, is the happy possessor of some good things.  Upon the mantel-shelf, backed by a large mirror, stands old china in alternation with alabaster jars, under domed shades, and tall vases encompassed by pendant ringlets of glass-lustre.  Rose-wood, walnut, and mahogany make a well-wooded interior; and in the dates thus indicated there is a touch of Georgian.  But, over and above these mellowing features of a respectable ancestry, the annunciating Angel of the Great Exhibition of 1851 has spread a brooding wing.  And while the older articles are treasured on account of family association, the younger and newer stand erected in places of honour by reason of an intrinsic beauty never previously attained to.  Through this chamber the dashing crinoline has wheeled the too vast orb of its fate, and left fifty years after (if we may measure the times of Heaven by the ticks of an earthly chronometer) a mark which nothing is likely to erase.  Upon the small table, where Hannah the servant deposits the lamp, lies a piece of crochet-work.  The fair hands that have been employed on it are folded on a lap of corded silk representing the fashions of the nineties, and the grey-haired beauty (that once was) sits contemplative, wearing a cap of creamish lace, tastefully arranged, not unaware that in the entering lamp-light, and under the fire’s soft glow of approval, she presents to her domestic’s eye an improving picture of gentility.  It is to Miss Julia Robinson’s credit—­and she herself places it there emphatically—­that she always treats servants humanly, though at a distance.  And when she now speaks she confers her slight remark just a little as though it were a favour.

JULIA.  How the days are drawing out, Hannah.

HANNAH.  Yes, Ma’am; nicely, aren’t they?

(For Hannah, being old-established, may say a thing or two not in the strict order.  In fact, it may be said that, up to a well-understood point, character is encouraged in her, and is allowed to peep through in her remarks.)

JULIA.  What time is it?

HANNAH (looking with better eyes than her mistress at the large ormolu clock which records eternally the time of the great Exhibition).  Almost a quarter to six, Ma’am.

JULIA.  So late?  She ought to have been here long ago.

HANNAH.  Who, Ma’am, did you say, Ma’am?

JULIA.  My sister, Mrs. James.  You remember?

HANNAH.  What, Miss Martha, Ma’am?  Well!

JULIA.  No, it’s Miss Laura this time:  you didn’t know she had married, I suppose?

HANNAH (with a world of meaning, well under control).  No, Ma’am. (A pause.) I made up the bed in the red room; was that right, Ma’am?

JULIA (archly surprised).  What?  Then you knew someone was coming? 
Why did you pretend, Hannah?