It would be impossible to hunt before twelve; so he went smoking and sauntering along, now wondering whether he would be able to establish a billet, now thinking how he would like to sell Sir Harry a horse, then considering whether he would be likely to pay for him, and enlivening the general reflections by ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.

Having passed the lodges at the end of the avenue, he cocked his hat, twiddled his hair, felt his tie, and arranged for a becoming appearance. The sudden turn of the road brought him full upon the house. How changed the scene! Instead of the scarlet-coated youths thronging the gravelled ring, flourishing their scented kerchiefs and hunting-whips -- instead of buxom Abigails and handsome mistresses hanging out of the windows, flirting and chatting and ogling, the door was shut, the blinds were down, the shutters closed, and the whole house had the appearance of mourning.

Mr Sponge reined up involuntarily, startled at the change of scene. What could have happened! Could Sir Harry be dead? Could my lady have eloped?’ Oh, that horrid Bugles!’ thought he; ‘he looked like a gay deceiver.’ And Mr Sponge felt as if he had sustained a personal injury.

Just as these thoughts were passing in his mind, a drowsy, slatternly charwoman, in an old black straw bonnet and grey bedgown, opened one of the shutters, and throwing up the sash of the window by where Mr Sponge sat, disclosed the contents of the apartment. The last waxlight was just dying out in the centre of a splendid candelabra on the middle of a table scattered about with claret-jugs, glasses, decanters, pineapple tops, grape dishes, cakes, anchovy-toast plates, devilled-biscuit racks -- all the concomitants of a sumptuous entertainment.

‘Sir Harry at home?’ asked Mr Sponge, making the woman sensible of his presence, by cracking his whip close to her ear.

‘No,’ replied the dame, gruffly, commencing an assault upon the nearest chair with a duster.

‘Where is he?’ asked our friend.

‘Bed, to be sure,’ replied the woman, in the same tone.

‘Bed, to be sure,’ repeated Mr Sponge. ‘I don’t think there’s any ‘‘sure’’ in the case. Do you know what o’clock it is?’ asked he.

‘No,’ replied the woman, flopping away at another chair, and arranging the crimson velvet curtains on the holders.

Mr Sponge was rather nonplussed. His red coat did not command the respect that a red coat generally does. The fact was, they had such queer people in red coats at Nonsuch House, that a red coat was rather an object of suspicion than otherwise.

‘Well, but my good woman,’ continued Mr Sponge, softening his tone, ‘can you tell me where I shall find anybody who can tell me anything about the hounds?’

‘No,’ growled the woman, still flopping, and whisking, and knocking the furniture about.

‘I’ll remember you for your trouble,’ observed Mr Sponge, diving his right hand into his breeches’ pocket.

‘Mr Bottleends be gone to bed,’ observed the woman, now ceasing her evolutions, and parting her grisly, disordered tresses, as she advanced and stood staring, with her arms akimbo, out of the window. She was the under-housemaid’s deputy; all the servants at Nonsuch House doing the rough of their work by deputy. Lady Scattercash was a real lady, and liked to have the credit of the house maintained, which of course can only be done by letting the upper servants do nothing. ‘Mr Bottleends be gone to bed,’ observed the woman.