Lord Benthorpe had been granted by his financial assistants the widest latitude for this evening’s entertainment. Indeed, a cheque, upon which no questions were asked, was sent him the moment his request reached them. He preferred, however, with inbred tact, to call but one other guest to his table, lest the merchant should be confused by too considerable a gathering. This other guest, chosen with admirable judgment, was Mrs Warner, who lived as an honoured neighbour in the seclusion of her widowed cottage near by. Lord Benthorpe introduced the clergyman’s widow as is the custom among men of breeding, in a voice so low and blurred as to leave Mr Burden under the erroneous impression that the lady, if not a peeress, enjoyed at least a courtesy title; nor can I regret the trivial error, when I reflect how admirably it served at once to prove the equality that reigns over all our social relations, and to afford, though by an illusion, the most vivid interest and pleasure to my dear old friend. As for the meal that followed, not the mere meats, though these also had been ordered by the master of the house and cooked to singular perfection—not these, but the subdued and cultured converse which illumined it, are most worthy of memory. To a soup, clear, but if anything insufficiently salted, and during the absorption of which very little was said, succeeded a boiled turbot, whose sauce, a mixture of butter and of flour, was handed noiselessly from out the surrounding darkness by a manservant other than he who poured at intervals of due length, and at the personal choice of each guest, hock or claret. Both these administrants, and yet a third, who would occasionally appear and pass out again through the immense portals of the room, secretly astounded Mr Burden by the perfection of their training, and the singular dignity of their demeanour; nor could he doubt that their features, though difficult to discern beyond the circle of light which fell upon the table, corresponded with their other characteristics. It was during the consumption of the fish (turbot as I have said—and boiled), that Lord Benthorpe, with practised good-will, opened the verbal tournament by an allusion to Mrs Warner’s little work, “Hours of Healing,” with which he was sure Mr Burden had long been acquainted. Mr Burden, in the act of disguising his ignorance under a strong assertion of his familiarity with the gem, could not but admire within himself the literary skill of one whose rank he imagined so exalted. It confirmed him in his respect for a class which gallantly neglects its gilded leisure, not only for the service of the State, but also for that of humanity at large.