At length, dressed, booted, and spurred, I made my way downstairs into the bar, where I found Miss Lushington, in a costume of surprising magnificence far surpassing any of her previous dresses, in a high flow of spirits, and up to her very ear-rings in the business of her office. Notwithstanding all she had on hand, however, she did not fail to greet me with cordial politeness; and here I must do Miss Lushington the justice to observe, that whatever might be the calls on her attention, and however numerous the circle of her admirers, offering the accustomed incense of flattery not unmixed with chaff, she had always a word and a smile to spare for the humblest and most bashful individual who entered the magic ring. “Dear heart! Mr. Softly,” said she, “it does me good to see you in your red coat again. But you’ll surely remember what an escape you’ve had. You’ll take warning, and not be so venturesome for the future.” I was not above feeling a sense of gratification at this allusion to my supposed recklessness, though I detected something like a smile on Mr. Naggett’s rosy face, whilst it was uttered. Yes, there was Mr. Naggett, in full bloom, armed and accoutred for the chase; sipping a fragrant concoction of gin-and-cloves moreover, as a further preparation. His horse, a large mealy chestnut, was being led up and down the yard. I saw it through the bar-window, and thought I never liked the look of an animal much less. All that art could accomplish had, however, been done, to set off its natural unsightliness. It was decorated with a new saddle and bridle, breast-plate, nose-band, and martingale complete. It was accoutred, moreover, with a gaudy saddle-cloth, rather too large, and a boot on every leg but one. The owner, too, was got-up in an alarming manner, and as he would have said himself, “regardless of expense.” Mr. Naggett’s coat was blue, with the brightest of buttons, bearing some raised device, in which a crown-imperial predominated. Mr. Naggett’s waistcoat was scarlet, bound with yellow braid: and his cream-coloured neckcloth was secured by a red cornelian pin. A low-crowned hat, white cloth breeches, and high Napoleon boots, faultless in polish, but spoiled by a pair of thin racing spurs, very badly put on, completed Mr. Naggett’s resplendent costume. The man himself seemed in the highest possible spirits; but I thought I could detect a slight tremor of the hand, despite his morning stimulant—that tremor which a horse is so apt in discovering, particularly when he is ridden at water. “Nice morning, sir,” said Mr. Naggett. He pronounced it _marning_; but this peculiarity I have observed amongst _ultra_ sporting characters. “Hope I see you all right again, sir. You’ll want both hands to-day—heels too, or I’m mistaken. Looks like a hunting _marning_, don’t it, sir? And there’s a fox lies here in Soakington Gorse, as will give us a ‘buster,’ I know. Got your ‘riding boots’ on to-day, sir, I dare say.”