‘I dare say it’s all a lie,’ observed Jawleyford; adding, ‘however, the invitation shall go for a dinner, all the same.’

The denunciation was interrupted by the appearance of Spigot, who came looming up the spacious drawing-room in the full magnificence of black shorts, silk stockings, and buckled pumps, followed by a sheepish-looking, straight-haired, red apple-faced young gentlemen, whom he announced as Mr Robert Foozle. Robert was the hope of the house of Foozle; and it was fortunate his parents were satisfied with him, for few other people were. He was a young gentleman who shook hands with everybody, assented to anything that anybody said, and in answering a question, where indeed his conversation chiefly consisted, he always followed the words of the interrogation as much as he could. For instance: ‘Well, Robert, have you been at Dulverton today?’ Answer, ‘No, I’ve not been at Dulverton today.’ Question, ‘Are you going to Dulverton tomorrow?’ Answer, ‘No, I’m not going to Dulverton, tomorrow.’ Having shaken hands with the party all round, and turned to the fire to warm his red fists, Jawleyford having stood at ‘attention’ for such time as he thought Mrs Foozle would be occupied before the glass in his study arranging her head-gear, and seeing no symptoms of any further announcement, at last asked Foozle if his papa and mamma were not coming.

‘No, my papa and mamma are not coming,’ replied he.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Jawleyford, in a tone of excitement.

‘Quite sure,’ replied Foozle, in the most matter-of-course voice.

‘The deuce!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, stamping his foot upon the soft rug; adding, ‘It never rains but it pours!’

‘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 today?’

‘Yes, my sisters were out today.’

‘Are your sisters going to the Christmas ball?’