‘Have you any note, or anything?’ asked Mrs. Jawleyford, who had followed Robert Foozle into the room.

‘Yes, I have a note,’ replied he, diving into the inner pocket of his coat, and producing one.  The note was a letter—­a letter from Mrs. Foozle to Mrs. Jawleyford, three sides and crossed; and seeing the magnitude thereof, Mrs. Jawleyford quietly put it into her reticule, observing, ’that she hoped Mr. and Mrs. Foozle were well?’

‘Yes, they are well,’ replied Robert, notwithstanding he had express orders to say that his papa had the toothache, and his mamma the earache.

Jawleyford then gave a furious ring at the bell for dinner, and in due course of time the party of six proceeded to a table for twelve.  Sponge pawned Mrs. Jawleyford off upon Robert Foozle, which gave Sponge the right to the fair Amelia, who walked off on his arm with a toss of her head at Emily, as though she thought him the finest, sprightliest man under the sun.  Emily followed, and Jawleyford came sulking in alone, sore put out at the failure of what he meant for the grand entertainment.

Lights blazed in profusion; lamps more accustomed had now become better behaved; and the whole strength of the plate was called in requisition, sadly puzzling the unfortunate cook to find something to put upon the dishes.  She, however, was a real magnanimous-minded woman, who would undertake to cook a lord mayor’s feast—­soups, sweets, joints, entrees, and all.

Jawleyford was nearly silent during the dinner; indeed, he was too far off for conversation, had there been any for him to join in; which was not the case, for Amelia and Sponge kept up a hum of words, while Emily worked Robert Foozle with question and answer, such as: 

“Were your sisters out to-day?”

“Yes, my sisters were out to-day.”

“Are your sisters going to the Christmas ball?”

“Yes, my sisters are going to the Christmas ball,” &c. &c.

Still, nearly daft as Robert was, he was generally asked where there was anything going on; and more than one young la—­but we will not tell about that, as he has nothing to do with our story.

By the time the ladies took their departure, Mr. Jawleyford had somewhat recovered from the annoyance of his disappointment; and as they retired he rang the bell, and desired Spigot to set in the horse-shoe table, and bring a bottle of the “green seal,” being the colour affixed on the bottles of a four-dozen hamper of port ("curious old port at 48_s_.”) that had arrived from “Wintle & Co.” by rail (goods train of course) that morning.

“There!” exclaimed Jawleyford, as Spigot placed the richly cut decanter on the horse-shoe table.  “There!” repeated he, drawing the green curtain as if to shade it from the fire, but in reality to hide the dulness the recent shaking had given it; “that wine,” said he, “is a quarter of a century in bottle, at the very least.”