If ever there was a banquet that to all appearance should have been one of triumphant hilarity, it was the sumptuous dinner to which our party sat down that day in the bright, warm, cheerful dining-room at Newton-Hollows. Notwithstanding Lady Mount Helicon’s sneers, no man understood better than the General that process which is conventionally called “doing things well.” The servants glided about noiselessly as if shod with velvet--the doors were never left open, still less closed with a bang--no bumps and thumps of tray-corners against projecting wood-work disturbed the conversation, to irritate the host while they alarmed his guests. Nor as the different courses made their appearance, did a gush of cold air accompany them from below-stairs, tainted but not warmed by the odours borne with it from the kitchen. The soup was as hot as the plates, the champagne iced to a turn, even as the haunch was roasted. Glasses were filled noiselessly by the butler, as a matter of course (by the way, an immense pull for the ladies), and everything was handed to everybody at the instant it was wanted, and this, to our humble ideas, is no mean auxiliary to the general success of an entertainment. The old Roman _bon vivant_ evidently knew a thing or two about dinner-giving (he called them suppers), or he would not have so dilated on the necessity of attention to trifles, _vilibus in scopis_, _in mappis_, etc. The General, too, understood these details thoroughly, and therefore it was disrespectful youth voted _nem. con._ that Newton-Hollows was “a rare shop at feeding time,” and that “old Bounce, if he was rather a bore out hunting, was nevertheless the boy to dine with, and no mistake!”