I pass over the drawing-room ceremonials, generally somewhat dreary before dinner, and only enlivened, in the present instance, by the personal daring of Major Brush, whose idiosyncrasy compelled him at once to constitute himself Mrs. Merrywether’s devoted admirer, and will ask my reader to imagine the company fairly settled at table (circular, with a quantity of light, and flowers), the soup sipped, the first glass of sherry swallowed, turbot and lobster sauce travelling leisurely round—in short, to use a hunting metaphor, which most of the guests would understand, their fox found and run into, and broken up with much _gusto_ and satisfaction. “Whoop! Worry! worry! worry! Tear him and eat him!” Mr. Sawyer has got a good start and a good place. He did not succeed in taking the daughter of the house in to dinner; for Struggles’s stout figure was in the way, and he could not get by till that jolly personage had unwittingly offered his arm. He secured the chair however on the other side, and thought he spied the least shade of disappointment, succeeded by one of the brightest looks, as he did so. He was consoled accordingly, and, after the sherry, not so shy as usual. Crasher, of course, in virtue of his rank, took in their hostess, who was supported on her other hand by Savage. Mrs. Merrywether sat between the Reverend and Brush. Everybody talked at once; and the champagne was beyond praise. Miss Dove was very agreeable, sharing her attentions with great impartiality between Struggles and the agitated Sawyer; only, when she addressed the latter, she used a somewhat lower tone than to any one else. The dodge has a prodigious effect on a man who is not up to it; and our friend was honest and inexperienced enough, where women were concerned. He felt in the seventh heaven, and more inclined for drinking than eating; always a bad sign. What is left to fall back upon, when the stomach is affected by the maladies of the heart? Not so Struggles. When she had seen the latter wholly engrossed in the merits of a “_vol-au-vent_” Miss Dove turned her pretty face and dangerous attention to her other cavalier. “You’ve never asked me how I got home that dark night,” said she. “A long drive in the wet is no joke after such a hard day. I dare say you’ve forgotten all about it, Mr. Sawyer.” And the eyelashes went down till they swept the delicate peach-like cheek. Our friend _looked_ unutterable things. He could think of nothing more appropriate to say, however, than that “He—he hoped she hadn’t caught cold.” Cissy laughed outright as she replied, “You wrapped me up too well for any fear of that. Do I _look_ as if I had?” she added, lifting the eyelashes, and fixing our friend with one of her killing looks, as you run a great cockchafer right through the body with a pin. You see, Mr. Sawyer wanted a good deal of bringing on; and the little witch encouraged him accordingly.