interval, we were joined by the
gentlemen, who, in consideration of the day, consented for that one
evening in the week to forego their usual games of chance or skill,
such as whist, billiards, and cockamaroo. But the essential inanity of
a fashionable party requires to be amused, so we set round a large
table, and played at "letters," sedulously "shuffling" the handsome
ivory capitals as we gave each other long jaw-breaking words, the
difficulties of which were much enhanced by their being usually
misspelt, but which, nevertheless, formed a very appropriate vehicle
for what the world calls "flirtation." I can always find out other
people's words much quicker than my own, and whilst I was puzzling
over "centipede," and teasing Mrs. Lumley, who had given it me, for
the initial letter, I peeped over the shoulder of my next neighbour,
Miss Molasses, and made out clearly enough the word she had just
received from Frank Lovell. _She_ would not have discovered it for a
century, but I read it at a glance. I just _looked_ at Frank, who
blushed like a girl, took it back, vowing he had spelt it wrong, and
gave her another. Did he think to throw dust in my eyes? There is a
stage of mental suffering at which we grow naturally clear-sighted. I
had arrived at it long ago. Watching every action of my neighbours, I
had yet ears for all that was going on around. Sir Guy, occupying a
position on the hearth-rug, with his coat-tails over his arms, was
haranguing the clergyman of the parish, a quiet, meek little man, who
dined at Scamperley regularly on Sunday, and appeared frightened out
of his wits. He was a man of education and intellect, a ripe scholar,
a middling preacher, and a profound logician; but he was completely
overpowered by coarse, ignorant, noisy Sir Guy.

"Driving--hey?" said the Baronet; "we're all fond of driving, here,
Mr. Waxy: there's a young lady who will teach you to handle the
ribbons. Gad, she'd make the crop-eared mare step along. Have you got
the old mare still? Devilish good old mare!"

No child of man is too learned, or too quiet, or too humble, to feel
flattered at praise of his horse. Mr. Waxy blushed a moist yellow as
he replied,--

"Very good of you to remember her, Sir Guy; docile and safe, and
gentle withal, Sir Guy. But I don't drive her myself, Sir Guy," added
Mr. Waxy, raising his hands deprecatingly, as who should say, "Heaven
forbid!" "I don't drive myself, sir; no--no, my lad assumes the reins;