Mr. Sponge regaling himself with a cigar in the stables and shrubberies, it was some time before Mr. Plummey had an opportunity of trying his diplomacy upon him, it being contrary to Mr. Plummey's custom to go out of doors after any one. At last he saw Sponge coming lounging along the terrace-walk, looking like a man thoroughly disengaged, and, timing himself properly, encountered him in the entrance.
'Beg pardon, sir,' said Mr. Plummey, 'but cook, sir, wishes to know, sir, if you dine here to-day, sir?'
'Of course,' replied Mr. Sponge, 'where would you have me dine?'
'Oh, I don't know, sir—only Mr. Puffington, sir, is very poorly, sir, and I thought p'raps you'd be dining out.
'Poorly is he?' replied Mr. Sponge; 'sorry to hear that—what's the matter with him?'
'Bad bilious attack, I think,' replied Plummey—'very subject to them, at this time of year particklarly; was laid up, at least confined to his room, three weeks last year of a similar attack.'
'Indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, not relishing the information.
'Then I must say you'll dine here?' said the butler.
'Yes; I must have my dinner, of course,' replied Mr. Sponge. 'I'm not ill, you know. No occasion to make a great spread for me, you know; but still I must have some victuals, you know.'
'Certainly, sir, certainly,' replied Mr. Plummey.