The West End is too often in debt to the City, but, in the matter of chaff, it was not so this day; for whenever she took a peck she returned a bushel; and so she rattled to the door of Solomon Oldfield, solicitor, Old Jewry.
She penetrated into the inner office of that worthy, and told him he must come with her that minute to Portman Square.
"Impossible, madam!" And, as they say in the law reports, gave his reasons.
"Certain, sir!" And gave no reasons.
He still resisted.
Thereupon she told him she should sit there all day and chaff his clients one after another, and that his connection with the Bassett and Huntercombe estates should end.
Then he saw he had to do with a termagant, and consented, with a sigh.
She drove him westward, wincing every now and then at her close driving, and told him all, and showed him what she was pleased to call her little game.

He told her it was too romantic.

Said he, "You ladies read nothing but novels; but the real world is quite different from the world of novels." Having delivered this remonstrance--which was tolerably just, for she never read anything but novels and sermons--he submitted like a lamb, and received her instructions.
She drove as fast as she talked, so that by this time they were at Admiral Bruce's door.
Now Mr.Oldfield took the lead, as per instructions.

"Mr.Oldfield, solicitor, and a lady--on business." The porter delivered this to the footman with the accuracy which all who send verbal messages deserve and may count on.

"Mr.Oldfield and lady." The footman, who represented the next step in oral tradition, without which form of history the Heathen world would never have known that Hannibal softened the rocks with vinegar, nor the Christian world that eleven thousand virgins dwelt in a German town the size of Putney, announced the pair as "Mr.and Mrs.Hautville." "I don't know them, I think.