[Original Size]
Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow went the terrier again, giving Mrs. Yammerton an excuse for sidling off to Mrs. “um,” who with her daughter were lost in admiration at a floss silk cockatoo, perched on an orange tree, the production of Miss Flora. “Oh, it was so beautiful! Oh, what a love of a screen it would make; what would she give if her Margaret could do such work,” inwardly thinking how much better Margaret was employed making her own—we will not say what.
Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow went Fury again, the proceeds of this bark being Mr. and Mrs. Tightlace, who now entered, the former “‘oping they weren’t late,” as he smirked, and smiled, and looked round for the youth on whom he had to vent his “British Sportsman” knowledge—the latter speedily drawing Mrs. Yammerton aside—to the ladies know what. But it was “no go” again. Mrs. Yammerton really didn’t know what Mrs. Tightlace meant. No; she really didn’t. Nor did Mrs. Tightlace’s assurance that it was “the talk of the country,” afford any clue to her meaning—but Mrs. Tightlace’s large miniature brooch being luckily loose, Mrs. Yammerton essayed to fasten it, which afforded her an opportunity of bursting into transports of delight at its beauty, mingled with exclamations as to its “wonderful likeness to Mr. T.,” though in reality she was looking at Mrs. Tightlace’s berthe, to see whether it was machinery lace, or real.
Then the grand rush took place; and Fury’s throat seemed wholly inadequate to the occasion, as first Blurkins’s Brougham, then Jarperson’s Gig, next the corn-cutter’s calèche, and lastly, Hetherington’s Dog-cart whisked up to the door, causing a meeting of the highly decorated watered silks of the house, and the hooded enveloped visitors hurrying through the passage to the cloak-room.
By the time the young ladies had made their obeisances and got congratulated on their looks, the now metamorphosed visitors came trooping in, flourishing their laced kerchiefs, and flattening their chapeaux mèchaniques as they entered. Then the full chorus of conversation was established; moon, hounds, turnips, horses.
Parliament, with the usual—“Oi see by the papers that Her Majesty is gone to Osborne,” or, “Oi see by the papers that the Comet is coming;” while Mrs. Rocket Larkspur draws Miss Yammerton aside to try what she can fish out of her. But here comes Fine Billy, and if ever hero realised an author’s description of him, assuredly it is our friend, for he sidles as unconcernedly into the room as he would into a Club or Casino, with all the dreamy listlessness of a thorough exquisite, apparently unconscious of any change having taken place in the party. But if Billy is unconscious of the presence of strangers, his host is not, and forthwith he inducts him into their acquaintance—Hetherington’s, Hyæna’s, and all.
It is, doubtless, very flattering of great people to vote all the little ones “one of us,” and not introduce them to anybody, but we take leave to say, that society is considerably improved by a judicious presentation. We talk of our advanced civilisation, but manners are not nearly so good, or so “at-ease-setting,” as they were with the last generation of apparently stiffer, but in reality easier, more affable gentlemen of the old school. But what a note of admiration our Billy is! How gloriously he is attired. His naturally curling hair, how gracefully it flows; his elliptic collar, how faultlessly it stands; his cravat, how correct; his shirt, how wonderfully fine; and, oh! how happy he must be with such splendid sparkling diamond studs—such beautiful amethyst buttons at his wrists—and such a love of a chain disporting itself over his richly embroidered blood-stone-buttoned vest. Altogether, such a first-class swell is rarely seen beyond the bills of mortality. He looks as if he ought to be kept under a glass shade. But here comes the Bumbler, and now for the agony of the entertainment.
The Major, who for the last few minutes has been fidgetting about pairing parties off according to a written programme he has in his waistcoat pocket, has just time to assign Billy to Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, to assuage her anguish at not being taken in before Mrs. Crickleton, when the Bumbler’s half-fledged voice is heard proclaiming at its utmost altitude—“dinner is sarved!” Then there is such a bobbing and bowing, and backing of chairs, and such inward congratulations, that the “‘orrid ‘alf’our” is over, and hopes from some that they may not get next the fire—while others wish to be there. Though the Major could not, perhaps, manage to get twenty thousand men out of Hyde Park, he can, nevertheless, manouvre a party out of his drawing-room into his dining-room, and forthwith he led the way, with Mrs. Crickleton under his arm, trusting to the reel winding off right at the end. And right it would most likely have wound off had not the leg-protruding Bumbler’s tongue-buckle caught the balloon-like amplitude of Mrs. Rocket Larkspur’s dress and caused a slight stoppage—in the passage,—during which time two couples slipped past and so deranged the entire order of the table. However, there was no great harm done, as far as Mrs. Larkspur’s consequence was concerned, for she got next Mr. Tightlace, with Mr. Pringle between her and Miss Yammerton, whom Mrs. Larkspur had just got to admit, that she wouldn’t mind being Mrs. P————, and Miss having been thus confidential, Mrs. was inclined, partly out of gratitude,—partly, perhaps, because she couldn’t help it—to befriend her. She was a great mouser, and would promote the most forlorn hope, sooner than not be doing.
We are now in the dining-room, and very smart everything is. In the centre of the table, of course, stands the Yammerton testimonial,—a “Savory” chased silver plated candelabrum, with six branches, all lighted up, and an ornamental centre flower-basket, decorated with evergreens and winter roses, presented to our friend on his completing his “five and twentieth year as master of harriers,” and in gratitude for the unparalleled sport he had uniformly shown the subscribers.