ow dy' doo, Lady Clara, how dy' doo,
Ethel?" he says, saluting those ladies, whom the second carriage had
brought to us. "Sir Barnes is not coming, that's one place vacant;
that, Lady Clara, you won't mind, you see him at home: but here's a
disappointment for you, Miss Newcome, Lord Farintosh can't come."

At this, two of the children cry out "Oh! oh!" with such a melancholy
accent that Miss Newcome and Lady Clara burst out laughing.

"Got a dreadful toothache," said Mr. Hobson; "here's his letter."

"Hang it, what a bore!" cries artless young King's College.

"Why a bore, Samuel? A bore, as you call it, for Lord Farintosh, I
grant; but do you suppose that the high in station are exempt from
the ills of mortality? I know nothing more painful than a toothache,"
exclaims a virtuous matron, using the words of philosophy, but showing
the countenance of anger.

"Hang it, why didn't he have it out?" says Samuel.

Miss Ethel laughed. "Lord Farintosh would not have that tooth out for
the world, Samuel," she cried, gaily. "He keeps it in on purpose, and it
always aches when he does not want to go out to dinner."

"I know one humble family who will never ask him again," Mrs. Hobson
exclaims, rustling in all her silks, and tapping her fan and her foot.
The eclipse, however, passes off her countenance and light is restored;
when at this moment, a cab having driven up during the period of
darkness, the door is flung open, and Lord Highgate is announced by a
loud-voiced butler.

My wife, being still the bride on this occasion, had the honour of
being led to the dinner-table by our banker and host. Lord Highgate was
reserved for Mrs. Hobson, who, in an engaging manner, requested poor
Clive to conduct his cousin Maria to dinner, handing over Miss Ethel
to another guest. Our Major gave his arm to Lady Clara, and I perceived
that my wife looked very grave as he passed the place where she sat, and
seated Lady Clara in the next chair to that which Lord Highgate chanced
to occupy. Feeling himself en vein, and the company being otherwise
rather mum and silent, my uncle told a number of delightful anecdotes
about the beau-monde of his time, about the Peninsular war, the Regent,
Brummell, Lord Steyne, Pea Green Payne, and so forth. He said the
evening was very pleasant, though some others of the party, as it
appeared to me, scarcely seemed to think so. Clive had not a word for
his cousin Maria, but looked across the table at Ethel all