d some of the
promenaders who were coming up the street.

"No! that's not him."

"Yes it is, walking with Mr Potts! Don't you see his beautiful large
dog following him? He never walks without it. An't it a beauty? It's
a Polygar dog from the East Indies. His name is Tippoo."

The house of the curate was but a short distance from the lodgings
occupied by Mr Rainscourt. They soon entered, and were hid from the
prying eyes of the idle and the curious.

"I have persuaded Mr Rainscourt to come and take a family dinner with
us, my dear."

"Quite delighted to see him," replied Mrs Potts, casting a sidelong
angry glance at her husband.

Mr Rainscourt made a slight bow, and threw himself on the sofa,
covering his face with his hand, as if the light was hideous.

Mrs Potts took the opportunity of escaping by the door, beckoning to
her husband as soon as she was outside.

"And I will go and decant the wine.--Quite in the family way, Mr
Rainscourt--no ceremony. You'll excuse me," continued the curate, as he
obeyed the summons of his wife, like a school-boy ordered up to be
_birched_.

"Well, my dear," interrogated Mr Potts, humbly, as soon as the door was
closed. But Mrs Potts made no reply, until she had led her husband to
such a distance from the parlour as she imagined would prevent Mr
Rainscourt from being roused by the high pitch to which she intended to
raise her voice.

"I do declare, Mr Potts, you are a complete _fool_. Saturday--all the
maids washing--and ask him to dinner! There's positively nothing to
eat. It really is too provoking."

"Well, my dear, what does it matter? The poor, man will, in all
probability, not eat a bit--he is so overcome."

"So over-fiddlesticked!" replied the lady. "Grief never hurts the
appetite, Mr Potts; on the contrary, people care more then about a good
dinner than at other times. It's the only enjoyment they can have
without being accused by the world of want of feeling."

"Well, you know better than I, my dear; but I really think that if you
were to die I could not eat a bit."

"And I tell you, Mr Potts, I could, if you were to die tomorrow.--So
stupid of you!--Sally, run and take off the tablecloth,--it's quite
dirty; put on one of the fine damask."

"They will be very large for the table, ma'am."

"Never mind--be quick, and step next door, and ask the old German to
come in and wait at table. He shall have a pint of strong beer."

Sally did as she was