“A ball, sir! Oh, then no wonder.”
“No wonder! What! do you mean to say that balls are not to be given?”
“Why, really, sir, we do not build private houses for ball-rooms—we could not, sir; the price of timber just now is enormous, and the additional strength required would never pay us.”
“What then! do you mean to say that there are no balls to be given in London?”
“Oh no, sir!—certainly not; but you must be aware that few people do. Even our aristocracy hire Willis’s rooms for their balls. Some of the old houses, indeed, such as Devonshire House, may do for such a thing.”
“But, Mr Smithers, I expect you will make this ceiling good.”
“Much obliged to you, sir, for giving me the preference—I will do it as reasonable as anybody,” replied Mr Smithers, bowing. “I will order my workmen directly—they are only next door.”
For a fortnight we were condemned to dine in the back dining-room; and after that Mr Smithers sent in a bill which cost me more than the ball and supper.
So soon as all was right again, I determined that I would hang up my pictures; for I had been accustomed to look at them for years, and I missed them. I sent for a carpenter, and gave him directions.
“I have the middle now, sir, exactly,” said the man, standing on the high steps; “but,” continued he, tapping with his hammer, “I can’t find wood.”