Mrs. Yammerton too, on whom devolves the care of the wax and the modérateurs, is here superintending her department—seeing that the hearth is properly swept, and distributing the Punches, and Posts, and “Ask Mamma’s” judiciously over the fine variegated table-cover. She is dressed in a rich silvery grey—with a sort of thing like a silver cow tie, with full tassels, twisted and twined serpent-like into her full, slightly streaked, dark hair. The illumination being complete, she seats herself fan in hand on the sofa, and a solemn pause then ensues, broken only by Billy’s and Monsieur’s meanderings over-head, and the keen whistle of the November wind careering among the hollies and evergreens which the Major keeps interpreting into wheels. Then his wife and he seek to relieve the suspense of the moment by speculating on who will come first. “Those nasty Tightlaces for a guinea,” observed the Major, polishing his nails, while Mrs. Yammerton predicted the Larkspurs. “No, the Tights,” reiterated the Major, jingling his silver; “Tights always comes first—thinks to catch one unprepared—” At length the furious bark of the inhospitable terrier, who really seemed as if he would eat horses, vehicle, visitors, and all, was followed by a quick grind up to the door, and such a pull at the bell as made the Major fear would cause it to suspend payment for good—_ring-ring-ring-ring-ring_ it went, as if it was never going to stop. “Pulled the bell out of the socket, for a guinea,” exclaimed the Major, listening for the letting down of steps, iron or recessed—recessed had it. “Mrs. D.” said the Major—figuring her old Landaulet in his mind. “_Ladies_ evidently,” assented Mrs. Yammerton, as the rustle of silks on their way to the put-to-rights Sanctum, sounded past the drawing-room door. The Major then began speculating as to whether they would get announced before another arrival took place, or not. **** Presently a renewed rustle was succeeded by the now yellow-legged, brown-backed Bumbler, throwing open the door and exclaiming in a stentorian voice, as if he thought his master and mistress had turned suddenly deaf, “Mrs. and Miss Dotherington!” and in an instant the four were hugging, and grinning, and pump-handling each other’s arms as if they were going into ecstacies, Mrs. Dotherington interlarding her gymnastics with Mrs. Yammerton, with sly squeezes of the hand, suited to _soto voce_ observations not intended for the Major’s ears, of “so _‘appy_ to ear it! so glad to congratulate you! _So nice!_” with an inquisitive whisper of—“_which is it? which is it?_ Do tell me!” ****