and as
he saw they had got somehow an idea of his being a lion extraordinary,
and was sensible that such is a character equally ridiculous, and
difficult to support, he hastened to write to Mr. Winterblossom a card
in the style of ordinary mortals. In this he stated the delay occasioned
by miscarriage of the letter, and his regret on that account; expressed
his intention of dining with the company at the Well on the succeeding
day, while he regretted that other circumstances, as well as the state
of his health and spirits, would permit him this honour very
infrequently during his stay in the country, and begged no trouble might
be taken about his accommodation at the Well, as he was perfectly
satisfied with his present residence. A separate note to Sir Bingo, said
he was happy he could verify the weight of the fish, which he had noted
in his diary; ("D--n the fellow, does he keep a diary?" said the
Baronet,) and though the result could only be particularly agreeable to
one party, he should wish both winner and loser mirth with their
wine;--he was sorry he was unable to promise himself the pleasure of
participating in either. Enclosed was a signed note of the weight of the
fish. Armed with this, Sir Bingo claimed his wine--triumphed in his
judgment--swore louder and more articulately than ever he was known to
utter any previous sounds, that this Tyrrel was a devilish honest
fellow, and he trusted to be better acquainted with him; while the
crestfallen Squire, privately cursing the stranger by all his gods, had
no mode of silencing his companion but by allowing his loss, and fixing
a day for discussing the bet.

In the public rooms the company examined even microscopically the
response of the stranger to Mr. Winterblossom, straining their ingenuity
to discover, in the most ordinary expressions, a deeper and esoteric
meaning, expressive of something mysterious, and not meant to meet the
eye. Mr. Meiklewham, the writer, dwelt on the word _circumstances_,
which he read with peculiar emphasis.

"Ah, poor lad!" he concluded, "I doubt he sits cheaper at Meg Dorts's
chimney-corner than he could do with the present company."

Doctor Quackleben, in the manner of a clergyman selecting a word from
his text, as that which is to be particularly insisted upon, repeated in
an under tone, the words, "_State of health?_--umph--state of
health?--Nothing acute--no one has been sent for--must be
chronic--tending to gout, perhaps.--Or his