“‘A note for you, sir,’ said the mess waiter, presenting me with a rose-colored three-cornered billet. It was from la chère Boggs herself, and ran thus:—
DEAR SIR,—Mr. M’Phun and a few friends are coming to tea at
my house after meeting; perhaps you will also favor us with your
company.
Yours truly,
ELIZA BOGGS.
“What was to be done? Quit the mess; leave a jolly party just at the jolliest moment; exchange Lafitte and red hermitage for a soirée of elders, presided over by that sweet man, Mr. M’Phun! It was too bad!—but then, how much was in the scale! What would the widow say if I declined? What would she think? I well knew that the invitation meant nothing less than a full-dress parade of me before her friends, and that to decline was perhaps to forfeit all my hopes in that quarter forever.
“‘Any answer, sir?’ said the waiter.
“‘Yes,’ said I, in a half-whisper, ‘I’ll go,—tell the servant, I’ll go.’
“At this moment my tender epistle was subtracted from before me, and ere I had turned round, had made the tour of half the table. I never perceived the circumstance, however, and filling my glass, professed my resolve to sit to the last, with a mental reserve to take my departure at the very first opportunity. Ormond and the paymaster quitted the room for a moment, as if to give orders for a broil at twelve, and now all seemed to promise a very convivial and well-sustained party for the night.
“‘Is that all arranged?’ inquired the major, as Ormond entered.
“‘All right,’ said he; ‘and now let us have a bumper and a song. Adjutant, old boy, give us a chant.’
“‘What shall it be, then?’ inquired I, anxious to cover my intended retreat by any appearance of joviality.
“‘Give us—