The arrangement of the supper-table displayed the deep research of Mesdames Applebite and Waddledot in the mysteries of gastronomical architecture.  Pagodas of barley-sugar glistened in the rays of thirty-six wax candles and four Argand lamps—­parterres of jellies, gravelled round with ratafias or valanced with lemon-peel, trembled as though in sympathy with the agitated bosoms of their delicate concocters—­custards freckled with nutmeg clustered the crystal handles of their cups together—­sarcophagi of pound cakes frowned, as it were, upon the sweetness which surrounded them—­whilst fawn-coloured elephants (from the confectionary menagerie of the celebrated Simpson of the Strand) stood ready to be slaughtered.  Huge stratified pies courted the inquiries of appetite.  Chickens boiled and roast reposed on biers of blue china bedecked with sprigs of green parsley and slices of yellow lemon.  Tanks of golden sherry and

[Illustration:  FULL-BODIED PORTE]

wooed the thirsty revellers; and never since the unlucky dessert of Mother Eve have temptations been so willingly embraced.  The carnage commenced—­spoons dived into the jelly—­knives lacerated the poultry and the raised pies—­a colony of custards vanished in a moment—­the elephants were demolished by “ivories[1]”—­the sarcophagi were buried—­and the glittering pagodas melted rapidly before the heat and the attacks of four little ladies in white muslin and pink sashes.  The tanks of sherry and port were distributed by the young gentlemen into the glasses and over the dresses of the young ladies.  The tipsy-cake, like the wreck of the Royal George, was rescued from the foaming ocean in which it had been imbedded.  The diffident young gentlemen grew very red about the eyes, and very loquacious about the “next set after supper;” whilst the faces of the elderly ladies all over lie room looked like the red lamps on Westminster Bridge, and ought to have been beacons to warn the inexperienced that where they shone there was very little water.  The violent clattering of the plates was at length succeeded by a succession of merry giggles and provoking little screams, occasioned by the rapid discharge of a park of bonbons.

    [1] Anglice, Teeth.—­THE one PIERCE.

Where the “slight predilection” was reciprocated, the Orlando Simses and the Tom Walkers were squeezing in beside the blushing idols of their worship and circling the waists of their divinities with their arms, in order to take up less room on the rout-stool.

Mamas were shaking heads at daughters who had ventured upon a tenth sip of a glass of sherry.  Papas were getting extremely jocular about the probability of becoming grand-dittos.  Everybody else was doing exactly what everybody pleased, when Mrs. Applebite’s uncle John emerged from behind an epergne, and vociferously commanded everybody to charge their glasses; a requisition which nobody was bold enough to dispute.  Uncle