The peal at the bell had caused a suppressed commotion in the apartment. Buried in the luxurious depths of a well-cushioned low chair, Mr. Sponge sat, Mogg in hand, with a toe cocked up, now dipping leisurely into his work—now whispering something sweet into Amelia's ear, who sat with her crochet-work at his side; while Emily played the piano, and Mrs. Jawleyford kept in the background, in the discreet way mothers do when there is a little business going on. The room was in that happy state of misty light that usually precedes the entrance of candles—a light that no one likes to call darkness, lest their eyes might be supposed to be failing. It is a convenient light, however, for a timid stranger, especially where there are not many footstools set to trip him up—an exemption, we grieve to say, not accorded to every one.
Though Mr. Spraggon was such a cool, impudent fellow with men, he was the most awkward, frightened wretch among ladies that ever was seen. His conversation consisted principally of coughing. 'Hem!'—cough—'yes, mum,'—hem—cough, cough—'the day,'—hem—cough—'mum, is'—hem—cough—'very,'—hem—cough—'mum, cold.' But we will introduce him to our family circle.
'Mr. Spraggon!' exclaimed Spigot in a tone equal to the one in which Jack had announced himself in the entrance; and forthwith there was such a stir in the twilit apartment—such suppressed exclamations of:
'Mr. Spraggon!—Mr. Spraggon! What can bring him here?'
Our traveller's creaking boots and radiant leathers eclipsing the sombre habiliments of Mr. Spigot, Mrs. Jawleyford quickly rose from her Pembroke writing-desk, and proceeded to greet him.
'My daughters I think you know, Mr. Spraggon; also Mr. Sponge? Mr. Spraggon,' continued she, with a wave of her hand to where our hero was ensconced in his form, in case they should not have made each other's speaking acquaintance.
The young ladies rose, and curtsied prettily; while Mr. Sponge gave a sort of backward hitch of his head as he sat in his chair, as much as to say, 'I know as much of Mr. Spraggon as I want.'
'Tell your master Mr. Spraggon is here,' added Mrs. Jawleyford to Spigot, as that worthy was leaving the room. 'It's a cold day, Mr. Spraggon; won't you come near the fire?' continued Mrs. Jawleyford, addressing our friend, who had come to a full stop just under the chandelier in the centre of the room. 'Hem—cough—hem—thank ye, mum,' muttered Jack. 'I'm not—hem—cough—cold, thank ye, mum.' His face and hands were purple notwithstanding.
'How is my Lord Scamperdale?' asked Amelia, who had a strong inclination to keep in with all parties.
'Hem—cough—hem—my lord—that's to say, my lady—hem—cough—I mean to say, my lord's pretty well, thank ye,' stuttered Jack.