The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as noisy, without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts. Then came the tea and coffee; and then, the ball.
A five and twenty mile walk, undertaken by the males at Wardle’s recommendation.
The best sitting room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark pannelled room with a high chimney piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens, were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth; and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just the place in which they would have held their revels.
If any thing could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick’s appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.
“You mean to dance?” said Wardle.
“Of course I do,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “Don’t you see I am dressed for the purpose?” and Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings, and smartly tied pumps.
“You in silk stockings!” exclaimed Mr. Tupman, jocosely.
“And why not Sir—why not?” said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.
“Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn’t wear them,” responded Mr. Tupman.