Now, my lord, do not you thank me for my communication?
But we must return to the conversazione of Doctor and Mrs Feasible.
The company arrived. There was rap after rap. The whole street was astounded with the noise of the wheels and the rattling of the iron steps of the hackney-coaches. Doctor Feasible had procured some portfolios of prints; some Indian idols from a shop in Wardour Street, duly labelled and christened, and several other odds and ends to create matter of conversation. The company consisted of several medical gentlemen and their wives, the great Mr B——, and the facetious Mr C——. There were ten or twelve authors, or gentlemen suspected of authorship, fourteen or fifteen chemists, all scientific of course, one colonel, half-a-dozen captains, and to crown all, a city knight and his lady, besides their general acquaintance, unscientific and unprofessional. For a beginning this was very well; and the company departed very hungry, but highly delighted with their evening's entertainment.
"What can all that noise be about?" said Mrs Plausible to her husband, who was sitting with her in the drawing-room, reading the Lancet, while she knotted, or did not.
"I am sure I cannot tell, Mrs Plausible."
"There, again! I'm sure if I have heard one, I have heard thirty raps at a door within this quarter of an hour. I'm determined I will know what it is," continued Mrs Plausible, getting up, and ringing the bell.
"Thomas, do you know what all that noise is about?" said Mrs Plausible, when the servant answered the bell.
"No, ma'am, I doesn't."
"Well, then, go and see."
"Yes, ma'am."