They were very nice tableaux, these, and I wish I could tell you about them; but one cannot tell everything in a story.

You would have been specially interested in hearing about the tableau of the Princes in the Tower, when one of the pillows burst, and the youthful Princes were so covered with feathers that the picture might very well have been called 'Michaelmas Eve; or, Plucking the Geese'.
Ironing the dresses and sewing the lace in occupied some time, and no one was dull, because there was the theatre to look forward to, and also the possible growth of hairs on the carpet, for which every one kept looking anxiously.

By four o'clock Jane was almost sure that several hairs were beginning to grow.
The Phoenix perched on the fender, and its conversation, as usual, was entertaining and instructive--like school prizes are said to be.

But it seemed a little absent-minded, and even a little sad.
'Don't you feel well, Phoenix, dear ?' asked Anthea, stooping to take an iron off the fire.
'I am not sick,' replied the golden bird, with a gloomy shake of the head; 'but I am getting old.' 'Why, you've hardly been hatched any time at all.' 'Time,' remarked the Phoenix, 'is measured by heartbeats.

I'm sure the palpitations I've had since I've known you are enough to blanch the feathers of any bird.' 'But I thought you lived 500 years,' said Robert, and you've hardly begun this set of years.