know it will do you good." Nine
times out of ten they changed their minds--out of regard for their old
original Betteredge, they were pleased to say--but all to no purpose.
There were gaps of silence in the talk, as the dinner got on, that made
me feel personally uncomfortable. When they did use their tongues again,
they used them innocently, in the most unfortunate manner and to the
worst possible purpose. Mr. Candy, the doctor, for instance, said more
unlucky things than I ever knew him to say before. Take one sample of
the way in which he went on, and you will understand what I had to put
up with at the sideboard, officiating as I was in the character of a man
who had the prosperity of the festival at heart.

One of our ladies present at dinner was worthy Mrs. Threadgall, widow
of the late Professor of that name. Talking of her deceased husband
perpetually, this good lady never mentioned to strangers that he WAS
deceased. She thought, I suppose, that every able-bodied adult in
England ought to know as much as that. In one of the gaps of silence,
somebody mentioned the dry and rather nasty subject of human anatomy;
whereupon good Mrs. Threadgall straightway brought in her late husband
as usual, without mentioning that he was dead. Anatomy she described as
the Professor's favourite recreation in his leisure hours. As ill-luck
would have it, Mr. Candy, sitting opposite (who knew nothing of the
deceased gentleman), heard her. Being the most polite of men, he seized
the opportunity of assisting the Professor's anatomical amusements on
the spot.

"They have got some remarkably fine skeletons lately at the College of
Surgeons," says Mr. Candy, across the table, in a loud cheerful voice.
"I strongly recommend the Professor, ma'am, when he next has an hour to
spare, to pay them a visit."

You might have heard a pin fall. The company (out of respect to the
Professor's memory) all sat speechless. I was behind Mrs. Threadgall at
the time, plying her confidentially with a glass of hock. She dropped
her head, and said in a very low voice, "My beloved husband is no more."

Unluckily Mr. Candy, hearing nothing, and miles away from suspecting the
truth, went on across the table louder and politer than ever.

"The Professor may not be aware," says he, "that the card of a member of
the College will admit him, on any day but Sunday, between the hours of
ten and four."

Mrs. Threadgall dropped her head right into her tucker, and,