that pet victim of country caprice, would come in and go out of season like lamb or asparagus; Major Moustache and Jawleyford would be as ‘thick as thieves’ one day, and at daggers drawn the next; Squire Squaretoes, of Squaretoes House, and he, were continually kissing or cutting; and even distance—­nine miles of bad road, and, of course, heavy tolls—­could not keep the peace between lawyer Seedywig and him.  What between rows and reconciliations, Jawleyford was always at work.

CHAPTER XVI

THE DINNER

[Illustration]

Notwithstanding Jawleyford’s recommendation to the contrary, Mr. Sponge made himself an uncommon swell.  He put on a desperately stiff starcher, secured in front with a large gold fox-head pin with carbuncle eyes; a fine, fancy-fronted shirt, with a slight tendency to pink, adorned with mosaic-gold-tethered studs of sparkling diamonds (or French paste, as the case might be); a white waistcoat with fancy buttons; a blue coat with bright plain ones, and a velvet collar, black tights, with broad black-and-white Cranbourne-alley-looking stockings (socks rather), and patent leather pumps with gilt buckles—­Sponge was proud of his leg.  The young ladies, too, turned out rather smart; for Amelia, finding that Emily was going to put on her new yellow watered silk, instead of a dyed satin she had talked of, made Juliana produce her broad-laced blue satin dress out of the wardrobe in the green dressing-room, where it had been laid away in an old tablecloth; and bound her dark hair with a green-beaded wreath, which Emily met by crowning herself with a chaplet of white roses.

Thus attired, with smiles assumed at the door, the young ladies entered the drawing-room in the full fervour of sisterly animosity.  They were very much alike in size, shape, and face.  They were tallish and full-figured.  Miss Jawleyford’s features being rather more strongly marked, and her eyes a shade darker than her sister’s; while there was a sort of subdued air about her—­the result, perhaps, of enlarged intercourse with the world—­or maybe of disappointments.  Emily’s eyes sparkled and glittered, without knowing perhaps why.

Dinner was presently announced.  It was of the imposing order that people give their friends on a first visit, as though their appetites were larger on that day than on any other.  They dined off plate; the sideboards glittered with the Jawleyford arms on cups, tankards, and salvers; ‘Brecknel and Turner’s’ flamed and swealed in profusion on the table; while every now and then an expiring lamp on the sideboards or brackets proclaimed the unwonted splendour of the scene, and added a flavour to the repast not contemplated by the cook.  The room, which was large and lofty, being but rarely used, had a cold, uncomfortable feel; and, if it hadn’t been for the looks of the thing, Jawleyford would, perhaps, as soon that they had dined in the little breakfast parlour.  Still there was everything very smart; Spigot in full fig, with a shirt frill nearly tickling his nose, an acre of white waistcoat, and glorious calves swelling within his gauze-silk stockings.  The improvised footman went creaking about, as such gentlemen generally do.