of a melodrama:--any or all of these I might have
accomplished. But to request me to define my dinner--to inquire into its
latitude--to compel me to fathom that sea of appetite which I now felt
rushing through my frame--to ask me to dive into futurity, and become
the prophet of pies and preserves!--My heart died within me at the
impossibility of a reply.

She had repeated the question before I could collect my senses around
me. Then, for the first time it occurred to me that, in the event of my
having no engagement abroad, my landlady meant to invite me! "There will
at least be the two daughters," I whispered to myself; "and after all,
Lucy Matthews is a charming girl, and touches the harp divinely. She has
a very small, pretty hand, I recollect; only her fingers are so
punctured by the needle--and I rather think she bites her nails. No, I
will not even now give up my hope. It was yesterday but a straw--to-day
it is but the thistledown; but I will cling to it to the last moment.
There are still four hours left; they will not dine till six. One
desperate struggle, and the peril is past; let me not be seduced by this
last golden apple, and I may yet win my race." The struggle was made--"I
should not dine at home." This was the only phrase left me, for I could
not say that "I should dine out." Alas! that an event should be at the
same time so doubtful and so desirable. I only begged that if any letter
arrived, it might be brought to me immediately.

The last plank, the last splinter, had now given way beneath me. I was
floating about with no hope but the chance of something almost
impossible. They had "left me alone," not with my glory, but with an
appetite that resembled an avalanche seeking whom it might devour. I had
passed one dinnerless day, and half of another; yet the promised land
was as far from sight as ever. I recounted the chances I had missed. The
dinners I might have enjoyed, passed in a dioramic view before my eyes.
Mr. Phiggins and his six clerks--the Clapham beef-eaters--the charms of
Upper Brook street--my pretty cousins, and the pantomime writer--the
stock broker, whose stories one forgets, and the elderly lady who
forgets her stories--they all marched by me, a procession of
apparitions. Even my landlady's invitation, though unborn, was not
forgotten in summing up my sacrifices. And for what?

Four o'clock. Hope was perfectly ridiculous. I had been walking upon the
hair-bridge over a gulf, and could no