The bell not being answered as quickly as Jack expected, he just opened the door himself; and when Spigot arrived, with such a force as he could raise at the moment, Jack was in the act of ‘peeling’ himself, as he called it.

‘What time do we dine?’ asked he, with the air of a man with the entree.

‘Seven o’clock, my lord—­that’s to say, sir—­that’s to say, my lord,’ for Spigot really didn’t know whether it was Jack or his master.

‘Seven o’clock!’ muttered Jack.  ‘What the deuce is the use of dinin’ at such an hour as that in winter?’

Jack and my lord always dined as soon as they got home from hunting.  Jack, having got himself out of his wraps, and run his bristles backwards with a pocket-comb, was ready for presentation.

‘What name shall I enounce?’ asked Mr. Spigot, fearful of committing himself before the ladies.

‘MISTER SPRAGGON, to be sure,’ exclaimed Jack, thinking, because he knew who he was, that everybody else ought to know too.

Spigot then led the way to the music-room.

The peal at the bell had caused a suppressed commotion in the apartment.  Buried in the luxurious depths of a well-cushioned low chair, Mr. Sponge sat, Mogg in hand, with a toe cocked up, now dipping leisurely into his work—­now whispering something sweet into Amelia’s ear, who sat with her crochet-work at his side; while Emily played the piano, and Mrs. Jawleyford kept in the background, in the discreet way mothers do when there is a little business going on.  The room was in that happy state of misty light that usually precedes the entrance of candles—­a light that no one likes to call darkness, lest their eyes might be supposed to be failing.  It is a convenient light, however, for a timid stranger, especially where there are not many footstools set to trip him up—­an exemption, we grieve to say, not accorded to every one.

Though Mr. Spraggon was such a cool, impudent fellow with men, he was the most awkward, frightened wretch among ladies that ever was seen.  His conversation consisted principally of coughing.  ’Hem!’—­cough—­’yes, mum,’—­hem—­cough, cough—­’the day,’—­hem—­cough—­’mum, is’—­hem—­cough—­’very,’—­hem—­cough—­’mum, cold.’  But we will introduce him to our family circle.

‘MR. SPRAGGON!’ exclaimed Spigot in a tone equal to the one in which Jack had announced himself in the entrance; and forthwith there was such a stir in the twilit apartment—­such suppressed exclamations of: 

‘Mr. Spraggon!—­Mr. Spraggon!  What can bring him here?’

Our traveller’s creaking boots and radiant leathers eclipsing the sombre habiliments of Mr. Spigot, Mrs. Jawleyford quickly rose from her Pembroke writing-desk, and proceeded to greet him.

’My daughters I think you know, Mr. Spraggon; also Mr. Sponge?  Mr. Spraggon,’ continued she, with a wave of her hand to where our hero was ensconced in his form, in case they should not have made each other’s speaking acquaintance.