Mr. Jones’s wine flowed freely, (so did his brandy par parenthesis. Brandy-and-water drinking becomes a solemn duty in the warm weather, among the inhabitants of Quiproquo.) Then the boxes of best Havanas were fast emptied, and clouds of smoke arose from the front piazza, frightening the neighbors into thinking the house was on fire until they were used to it. And Boston! and whist! there was no end to these favorite games, while the gossips of the village whispered that it was a very profitable amusement to Mr. Jones. But there was still a Mordecai at the gate of poor Mrs. Jones’s soul. Many had called to see her, whose nod a few months previous was as great as Jove’s from Mount Olympus; but like all who strive for much, she wanted more. There was one card whose reception would at once stamp her “a peer,” give her the right to place the golden grasshopper in her hair; for Mrs. Macfuss was one of the proud Autochthones whose boast was that she had never been but the first among the first. She had been heard to say that she could not think of encouraging such persons as the Joneses! And such a speech from the cynosure of all eyes threw Mrs. Jones into hysterics. Mrs. Macfuss’s house was the house par excellence; her suppers were given in the Hall of Apollo, where Lucullus supped with Lucullus. The dinners were triumphs of culinary art, over which the very spirit of Ude must have presided. Her toilette was ever in the most exquisite taste. Her dresses gave the _ton_, and her patronage decided the fate of a mantuamaker for life. The entire race of milliners would have credited her forever sooner than lose the honor of her custom; and she it was for whose favor poor Mrs. Jones pined in green and yellow melancholy. She cried for very spite, while Mr. Jones swore that he would trample on the d—n proud set after a while. They determined to make a mighty effort, and commenced preparations for a ball. Invitations were written on scented paper, and put into envelopes with embossed vines and bouquets over the seal. These were sent to her new acquaintances, and the “picked and chosen” of her old ones; and breaking through the charmed rules of etiquette, Mrs. Jones’s cards were slipped into some of the invitations and left at Mrs. Macfuss’s for herself and family. A band of music was engaged, and every thing prepared on a large scale. Mrs. Jones was seen rushing in and out of the house in an old loose gown looking like—herself; sleeves up to her elbows, and said elbows covered with eggs, sugar and butter; while behind her ran Master Pushaw Jones, on a pair of hard fat, blue legs, his face besmeared with the same sweet compound that graced his mamma’s arms, enlivening the scene with shrill screams for egg-shells, into which he concocted sundry messes that defy description.