Mrs. Merrywether was quite willing to take him as he was. Before the cheese was off the table, he had settled an expedition to the Crystal Palace with her, the first time they were both in London, and secured a flower from her bouquet, which he placed, with much mock-devotion, in a glass of sherry and water. Also, on the departure of the ladies, he dived for, and brought to the surface, the following articles, the property of the efflorescent widow: One French fan—epoch, Louis-Quatorze; one pair of white gloves, bound with ribbon, and numbered six and three-quarters; one gold vinaigrette, with tiny chain complete; and one lace-edged handkerchief, with a square inch of cambric in the middle—it is presumed, in case of necessity, to dry the fair mourner’s tears. After this crowning feat, he threw himself back in his chair, and settled to his host’s claret, like a man who is thoroughly well satisfied with himself. Never was a dinner that went off better. Mrs. Dove had Savage to listen to, who was well-informed, and Crasher to look at, who was well dressed. Struggles and Dove were congenial souls, and, if once they could get together uninterrupted, would talk about hunting by the hour. Mrs. Merrywether was pleased with her dinner; pleased with her neighbour; also—for she knew, even before she went to the glass in the drawing-room, that she was looking her best—pleased with herself. Cissy was satisfied; Sawyer enchanted; and Crasher, looking forward with lazy gratification to a dangerous drive in the dark, was in higher spirits than usual. We will leave the ladies to their tea and coffee, undisturbed. The gentlemen close up round their host. A dry biscuit and a magnum of the undeniable make their appearance. The parson fills out a bumper of the rosy fluid, and proposes his first and only toast—“Fox-hunting!” Each man drinks it with thirsty satisfaction. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXI THE MAGNUM BONUM