But here we will leave Mr. Spohf's reverie--for Victoria and reality; where the company is arriving to the annual dinner, and sitting about the drawing-room, looking as happy as patients at a dentist's; or festive, as disappointed toadeaters at the funeral of an opulent relative, who had left all his property to found an asylum for decayed postboys--after leading everybody to expect the lion's share of it:--the guests, for want of more exciting topics, admiring the gimcracks they admired a year ago; thinking the portrait of Mr. Brown--"done," twenty years since, at a portrait club,--a splendid likeness, and that the original grows younger (query, richer?); stating truths and untruths about the weather; inquiring energetically after each other's health--not caring for the answers; with other homely pleasantries, too numerous to mention; until some of the juveniles--the only ones who really seem at home--espy from the window a loaded parcel-cart; this they observe as funny on a Sunday (little thinking, at that moment, it was Tuesday). Here Mr. Brown descends, to hold an altercation with the guard of that cart, who makes light of a huge hamper of game; whilst the guests at the windows above, speculate upon having to eat an uncooked turkey, or fancy their ravenous appetites waiting while it is cooked--the youngsters calculating upon a dinner all pudding. Mr. Brown returns, and tenders his arm to Lady Lucretia de Camp--in the excitement, leading her down the side where the stairs taper to nothing,--causing that lady to lose both equilibrium and temper. [Illustration: THE PUDDING. AS IT OUGHT TO HAVE APPEARED.]