Here was a catastrophe. My wife hastened down, and I followed. Sure enough the weight of mortar had crushed all beneath it—all was chaos and confusion. Jellies, blancmanges, pâtés, cold roasts, creams, trifles,—all in one mass of ruin, mixed up with lime, horse-hair, plaster of Paris, and stucco. It wore all the appearance of a Swiss avalanche in miniature.
“Good heavens, how dreadful!” exclaimed my wife.
“How much more so if there had been people in the room,” replied I.
“What could be the cause of it!” exclaimed my wife.
“These new houses, sir, won’t bear dancing in,” observed Mr Gunter’s head man.
“So it appears,” replied I.
This unfortunate accident was the occasion of the party breaking up: they knew that there was no chance of supper, which they had looked forward to; so they put on their shawls and departed, leaving us to clear up the wreck at our leisure. In fact, as my daughters declared, it quite spoiled the ball as well as the supper.
The next morning I sent for Mr Smithers, who made his appearance, and showed him what had taken place.
“Dear me, I’m very sorry; but you had too many people above stairs—that is very clear.”
“Very clear, indeed, Mr Smithers. We had a ball last night.”