“Come, sir,” cried the coachman.
“Coming; tears,—caustic,” repeated the homoeopathist, pulling out his handkerchief and his phial-book together as he got into the coach; and he hastily swallowed his antilachrymal.
CHAPTER XIV.
Richard Avenel was in a state of great nervous excitement. He proposed to give an entertainment of a kind wholly new to the experience of Screwstown. Mrs. M’Catchley had described with much eloquence the Dejeunes dansants of her fashionable friends residing in the elegant suburbs of Wimbledon and Fulham. She declared that nothing was so agreeable. She had even said point-blank to Mr. Avenel, “Why don’t you give a Dejeune dansant?” And, therewith, a Dejeune dansant Mr. Avenel resolved to give.
The day was fixed, and Mr. Avenel entered into all the requisite preparations, with the energy of a man and the providence of a woman.
One morning as he stood musing on the lawn, irresolute as to the best site for the tents, Leonard came up to him with an open letter in his hand.
“My dear uncle,” said he, softly.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Avenel, with a start. “Ha-well, what now?”
“I have just received a letter from Mr. Dale. He tells me that my poor mother is very restless and uneasy, because he cannot assure her that he has heard from me; and his letter requires an answer. Indeed I shall seem very ungrateful to him—to all—if I do not write.”