for she had hardly enjoyed an approving glance in the mirror ere our hero came swaggering in, twitching his arms as if he hadn’t got his wristbands adjusted and working his legs as if they didn’t belong to him.

‘Ah, my dear Miss Emley!’ exclaimed he, advancing gaily towards her with extended hand, which she took with all the pleasure in the world; adding, ‘And how have you been?’

‘Oh, pretty well, thank you,’ replied she, looking as though she would have said, ‘As well as I can be without you.’

Sponge, though a consummate judge of a horse, and all the minutiæ connected with them, was still rather green in the matter of woman; and having settled in his own mind that Amelia should be his choice, he concluded that Emily knew all about it, and was working on her sister’s account, instead of doing the agreeable for herself. And there it is where elder sisters have such an advantage over younger ones. They are always shown, or contrive to show themselves, first; and if a man once makes up his mind that the elder one will do, there is an end of the matter; and it is neither a deeper shade or two of blue, nor a brighter tinge of brown, nor a little smaller foot, nor a more elegant waist, that will make him change for a younger sister. The younger ones immediately become sisters in the men’s minds, and retire, or are retired, from the field -- ‘scratched,’ as Sponge would say.

Amelia, however, was not going to give Emily a chance; for, having dressed with all the expedition compatible with an attractive toilet -- a lavender-coloured satin with broad black lace flounces, and some heavy jewellery on her well-turned arms, she came sidling in so gently as almost to catch Emily in the act of playing the agreeable. Turning the sidle into a stately sail, with a haughty sort of sneer and toss of the head to her sister, as much as to say, ‘What are you doing with my man?’ -- a sneer that suddenly changed into a sweet smile as her eye encountered Sponge’s -- she just motioned him off to a sofa, where she commenced a sotto voce conversation in the engaged-couple style.

The plot then began to thicken. First came Jawleyford, in a terrible stew.

‘Well, this is too bad!’ exclaimed he, stamping and flourishing a scented note, with a crest and initials at the top. ‘This is too bad,’ repeated he; ‘people accepting invitations, and then crying off at the last moment.’

‘Who is it can’t come, papa -- the Foozles?’ asked Emily.

‘No -- Foozles be hanged,’ sneered Jawleyford; ‘they always come -- the Blossomnoses!’ replied he, with an emphasis.

‘The Blossomnoses!’ exclaimed both girls, clasping their hands and looking up at the ceiling.

‘What, all of them?’ asked Emily.

‘All of them,’ rejoined Jawleyford.

‘Why, that’s four,’ observed Emily.

‘To be sure it is,’ replied Jawleyford; ‘five, if you count them by appetites; for old Blossom always eats and drinks as much as two people.

‘What excuse do they give?’ nsked Amelia.

‘Carriage-horse taken suddenly ill,’ replied Jawleyford; ‘as if that’s any excuse when there are post-horses within half a dozen miles.’

‘He wouldn’t have been stopped hunting for want of a horse, I dare say,’ observed Amelia.