“Harborough’s getting quite a gay place, I declare. So many gentlemen come there now, to hunt; and it’s so convenient for the railroad; and I dare say you know Mr. Savage, and Captain Struggles, and Major Brush; and _are_ you going to give us a Harborough ball?” Mr. Sawyer was sufficiently experienced to take heart of grace at this juncture, and reply, “Oh, certainly—certainly! I’m sure it will be a capital ball. May we hope, Miss Dove, that you will come to it?” The eyelashes went down immediately; and Miss D. was, no doubt, on the eve of making an appropriate reply, when the announcement of luncheon, and the simultaneous return of _Paterfamilias_, broke up the pair of _tête-à-têtes_, and the party adjourned to the dining-room, all, apparently, on pretty good terms with themselves—Mr. Sawyer inwardly proud of having got so well out of the ball difficulty; “Cissy” a little elevated with the conviction that she had made a fresh conquest (not that it was any novelty, but the feeling is always more or less agreeable); Papa ready for luncheon, and sanguine about the four-year-old; Mamma enchanted to have caught a good listener; and the Honourable Crasher in his usual state of easy and affable _nonchalance_. It is only right to observe that the Rev. had exchanged his hunting costume for a suit of more clerical attire, yet, somehow, had failed to put off with his leathers an atom of his equestrian air. Even in the fullest canonicals, you never could have taken Mr. Dove for anything but a sportsman. Why are people always so much pleasanter at luncheon than at dinner? Notwithstanding John Bull’s predilection for the latter meal, as a mode of testifying his regard, his civility, and his own respectability, I cannot help thinking that foreigners are right to ignore that heavy system of dinner-giving which we islanders regard as the very framework of our social system. There is always more or less of pomposity, and consequent restraint, attendant upon a regular set dinner in the country. A few thorough people of the world, “worldly,” know how to ask exactly the right three couple or so, and put them down to a hot dinner at a round table, such as is the very acme of all festive boards; but this is a rare quality in host and hostess. Usually, you are placed next to a guest you don’t know, and opposite to one you don’t like. Your soup is cold, your venison underdone; and the eyes of three or four servants intently watching every mouthful you swallow is destruction to a delicate appetite. In some old-fashioned houses, you may even recognise the burly coachman assisting his fellow-domestics to wait upon the company; and although, for my own part, I confess to a liking for “the smell of the stables,” I cannot but admit that the flavour is somewhat spoilt by being mixed with that of a “_salmi de gibier_,” or a sweetbread plastered round with spinach.