dinner-time.
What could Ethel have to say to her partner, old Colonel Sir Donald
M'Craw, who gobbled and drank, as his wont is, and if he had a remark
to make, imparted it to Mrs. Hobson, at whose right hand he was sitting,
and to whom, during the whole course, or courses, of the dinner, my Lord
Highgate scarcely uttered one single word?

His lordship was whispering all the while into the ringlets of
Lady Clara; they were talking a jargon which their hostess scarcely
understood, of people only known to her by her study of the Peerage.
When we joined the ladies after dinner, Lord Highgate again made way
towards Lady Clara, and at an order from her, as I thought, left her
ladyship, and strove hard to engage in a conversation with Mrs. Newcome.
I hope he succeeded in smoothing the frowns in that round little face.
Mrs. Laura, I own, was as grave as a judge all the evening; very grave
even and reserved with my uncle, when the hour for parting came, and we
took him home.

"He, he!" said the old man, coughing, and nodding his old head and
laughing in his senile manner, when I saw him on the next day; "that was
a pleasant evening we had yesterday; doosid pleasant, and I think my
two neighbours seemed to be uncommonly pleased with each other; not an
amusing fellow, that young painter of yours, though he is good-looking
enough, but there's no conversation in him. Do you think of giving a
little dinner, Arthur, in return for these hospitalities? Greenwich,
hey, or something of that sort? I'll go you halves, sir, and we'll ask
the young banker and bankeress--not yesterday's Amphitryon nor his wife;
no, no, hang it! but Barnes Newcome is a devilish clever, rising man,
and moves in about as good society as any in London. We'll ask him
and Lady Clara and Highgate, and one or two more, and have a pleasant
party."

But to this proposal, when the old man communicated it to her, in a very
quiet, simple, artful way, Laura, with a flushing face said No quite
abruptly, and quitted the room, rustling in her silks, and showing at
once dignity and indignation.

Not many more feasts was Arthur Pendennis, senior, to have in this
world. Not many more great men was he to flatter, nor schemes to wink
at, nor earthly pleasures to enjoy. His long days were well-nigh ended:
on his last couch, which Laura tended so affectionately, with his last
breath almost, he faltered out to me. "I had other views for you, my
boy, and once hoped to see you in