anvasses sometimes are, when he cannot paint on them.

What happened to her alone in the drawing-room, when the ladies invited
to the dinner had departed, and those convoked to the soiree began to
arrive,--what happened to her or to them I do not like to think. The
Gandishes arrived first. Boadicea and the angels. We judged from the
fact that young Mr. Gandish came blushing in to the dessert. Name after
name was announced of persons of whom Mrs. Newcome knew nothing. The
young and the old, the pretty and homely, they were all in their best
dresses, and no doubt stared at Mrs. Newcome, so obstinately plain
in her attire. When we came upstairs from dinner, we found her seated
entirely by herself, tapping her fan at the fireplace. Timid groups of
persons were round about, waiting for the irruption of the gentlemen,
until the pleasure should begin. Mr. Newcome, who came upstairs yawning,
was heard to say to his wife, "Oh, dam, let's cut!" And they went
downstairs, and waited until their carriage had arrived, when they
quitted Fitzroy Square.

Mr. Barnes Newcome presently arrived, looking particularly smart and
lively, with a large flower in his button-hole, and leaning on the arm
of a friend. "How do you do, Pendennis?" he says, with a peculiarly
dandified air. "Did you dine here? You look as if you dined here" (and
Barnes, certainly, as if he had dined elsewhere). "I was only asked to
the cold soiree. Who did you have for dinner? You had my mamma and the
Baughtons, and my uncle and aunt, I know, for they are down below in the
library, waiting for the carriage: he is asleep, and she is as sulky as
a bear."

"Why did Mrs. Newcome say I should find nobody I knew up here?" asks
Barnes's companion. "On the contrary, there are lots of fellows I know.
There's Fred Bayham, dancing like a harlequin. There's old Gandish, who
used to be my drawing-master; and my Brighton friends, your uncle and
cousin, Barnes. What relations are they to me? must be some relations.
Fine fellow your cousin."

"Hm," growls Barnes. "Very fine boy,--not spirited at all,--not fond of
flattery,--not surrounded by toadies,--not fond of drink,--delightful
boy! See yonder, the young fellow is in conversation with his most
intimate friend, a little crooked fellow, with long hair. Do you know
who he is? he is the son of old Todmoreton's butler. Upon my life it's
true."

"And suppose it is; what the deuce do I care!" cries Lord Kew. "Who can
be more respect