most unquestionably would have gone off, had
it not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and
repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally,
when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his
proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.

'You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay
here, Mr. Winkle?' said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her
tears.

'I hope not,' said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his
visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he
was raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay
effectually.

'I hope not.'

'You are very good,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but a letter has been received
from Mr. Pickwick--so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was
brought up to my bedroom door, this morning--in which he requests us to
join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.'

'But you will come back?' said Mrs. Pott.

'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Winkle.

'You are quite sure?' said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her
visitor.

'Quite,' responded Mr. Winkle.

The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding
over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the
loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the INDEPENDENT;
Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a
situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to
return, he tore himself away.

'If he ever comes back, I'll poison him,' thought Mr. Pott, as he turned
into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.

'If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people
again,'thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, 'I shall
deserve to be horsewhipped myself--that's all.'

His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour
they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr.
Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have
already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr.
Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful description.

Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive
them, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of
Mr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman,