In the course of the same afternoon Mrs. J. G. Peewitt is gratified by the reception of this—
"Mrs. Framp feels exceedingly grieved that she and Mr. Framp are unable to accept Mrs. J. G. Peewitt's kind invitation for Wednesday,——inst.—Grumpion Parade, Tuesday afternoon."
Now Mrs. Framp, what did you do that for? Between you and me, and to speak in plain English—you are a story-teller, Mrs. Framp. A story-teller! And you, old gentleman—the man Framp I address—are equally guilty of the fib, as an accessory before the fact. Again, this is a prevalent custom. Philosophers, summon moralists to your aid, and descant on this subject.
"I am sure you sing, Mr. Frederick," says a pasty-faced individual of the 'female sect,' to a young gentleman in white satin waistcoat and red whiskers, who has been pottering about the piano for some time.
"No, indeed, Miss Gromm!" he replies. "I assure you that I scarcely sing at all."
"Oh! I am quite sure, now, you do sing. Pray do sing. Will you look over this music-book? there are a great many songs in it. I am sure you will find something that will suit you."
"Oh! upon my word, Miss Gromm, I scarcely ever sing."
Fred! you know you've brought all your music with you to-night, and have practised it carefully over with your pretty sister Bessy, purposely to sing at the Gromms'.
Thus adjured, Mr. Frederick begins to turn over the leaves of the music-book, his eyes resting occasionally on such songs as 'The Rover's Bride,' 'The British Oak,' 'Wanted a Governess,' and other songs which Fred abominates. At last he turns to a very pretty girl sitting near him, and says faintly, "Bessy! did you bring any of your music?" His sister, who has been watching his proceedings, in mute surprise answers innocently enough, "Oh! yes, Fred, I brought all your songs, you know!" Fred looks blue; but by the time the neat case containing them has been presented to him by a servant, he has recovered himself. Now, reader, what song do you suppose this young gentleman, who scarce sings at all, will select? You are a judge of music, and you pronounce his selection admirable—for it falls on 'Adelaide,' a song of which I (but this quite entre nous) would sooner be the composer than of any song that ever was sung: but you fear lest Fred would not do justice to it, as he sings so seldom. You are wrong. A finer tenor, better taste, and more correct ear, one rarely meets with in private than are possessed by Fred. Every one exclaims that it is a treat to hear him sing. And so it is.