h Jack's gruff voice saying to the servant from the
top of the steps, 'We'll start _directly_ after breakfast, mind.' A
tremendous peal of the bell immediately followed, convulsing the whole
house, for nobody had seen the vehicle approaching, and the establishment
had fallen into the usual state of undress torpor that intervenes between
calling hours and dinner-time.

The bell not being answered as quickly as Jack expected, he just opened the
door himself; and when Spigot arrived, with such a force as he could raise
at the moment, Jack was in the act of 'peeling' himself, as he called it.

'What time do we dine?' asked he, with the air of a man with the entree.

'Seven o'clock, my lord--that's to say, sir--that's to say, my lord,' for
Spigot really didn't know whether it was Jack or his master.

'Seven o'clock!' muttered Jack. 'What the deuce is the use of dinin' at
such an hour as that in winter?'

Jack and my lord always dined as soon as they got home from hunting. Jack,
having got himself out of his wraps, and run his bristles backwards with a
pocket-comb, was ready for presentation.

'What name shall I _e_nounce?' asked Mr. Spigot, fearful of committing
himself before the ladies.

'MISTER SPRAGGON, to be sure,' exclaimed Jack, thinking, because
he knew who he was, that everybody else ought to know too.

Spigot then led the way to the music-room.

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