“Take away!” at length says the Major, with an air of disgust, following the order with an invitation to Mrs. Rocket Larkspur to take wine. The guests follow the host’s example, and a momentary rally of liveliness ensues. Mrs. Rocket Larkspur and Mr. Tightlace contend for Fine Billy’s ear; but Miss Yammerton interposing with a sly whisper supersedes them both. Mrs. Rocket construes that accordingly. A general chirp of conversation is presently established, interspersed with heavy demands upon the breadbasket by the gentlemen. Presently the door is thrown open, and a grand procession of sweets enters—jellies, blancmanges, open tarts, shut tarts, meringues, plum pudding, maccaroni, black puddings,—we know not what besides: and the funds of conviviality again look up. The rally is, however, but of momentary duration. The same evil genius that awaited on the second course seems to attend on the third. People stop at the second or third mouthful and send away the undiminished plates slily, as before. Some venture on other dishes—but the result is the same—the plate vanishes with its contents. There is, however, a great run upon the cheese—Cheshire and Gloucester; and the dessert suffers severely. All the make-weight dishes, even, disappear; and when the gentlemen rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room they attack the tea as if they had not had any dinner. At length a “most agreeable evening” is got through; and as each group whisks away, there is a general exclamation of “What a most extraordinary taste everything had of—————” What do you think, gentle reader? “Can’t guess! can’t you?” “What do you think, Mrs. Brown?” “What do you think, Mrs. Jones? “What do you, Mrs. Robinson?” “What! none of you able to guess! And yet everybody at table hit off directly!” “All give it up?” Brown, Jones, and Robinson? “Yes—yes—yes.” “Well then, we’ll tell you”:— “Everything tasted of Castor oil!” “_Castor oil!_” exclaims Mrs. Brown. “Castor oil!” shrieks Mrs. Jones. “Castor oil!” shudders Mrs. Robinson. “O-o-o-o! how nasty!” “But how came it there?” asks Mrs. Brown. “We’ll tell you that, too—” The Major’s famous cow Strawberry-cream’s calf was ill, and they had tapped a pint of fine “cold-drawn” for it, which Monsieur Jean Rougier happening to upset, just mopped it up with his napkin, and chucking it away, it was speedily adopted by the hind’s little girl in charge of the plates and dishes, who imparted a most liberal castor oil flavour to everything she touched. And that entertainment is now known by the name of the “Castor Oil Dinner.” CHAPTER XXII. A HUNTING MORNING.—UNKENNELING.