“Then, I say done!” quoth the Squire.
And “Done!” responded the Knight; and out came their red pocketbooks.
“But who shall decide the bet?” said the Squire, “The genius himself, I suppose; they talk of asking him here, but I suppose he will scarce mind quizzes like them.”
“Write myself—John Mowbray,” said the Baronet.
“You, Baronet!—you write!” answered the Squire, “d—— me, that cock won't fight—you won't.”
“I will,” growled Sir Bingo, more articulately than usual.
“Why, you can't!” said Mowbray. “You never wrote a line in your life, save those you were whipped for at school.”
“I can write—I will write!” said Sir Bingo. “Two to one I will.”
And there the affair rested, for the council of the company were in high consultation concerning the most proper manner of opening a communication with the mysterious stranger; and the voice of Mr. Winterblossom, whose tones, originally fine, age had reduced to falsetto, was calling upon the whole party for “Order, order!” So that the bucks were obliged to lounge in silence, with both arms reclined on the table, and testifying, by coughs and yawns, their indifference to the matters in question, while the rest of the company debated upon them, as if they were matters of life and death.
“A visit from one of the gentlemen—Mr. Winterblossom, if he would take the trouble—in name of the company at large—would, Lady Penelope Penfeather presumed to think, be a necessary preliminary to an invitation.”