We returned to the mansion. The reception room was fast filling. Generals, colonels, judges, barristers of the Supreme Court, merchants, agents, writers, with their ladies, the _élite_ of Calcutta fashionable society, was, now, for the first time, submitted to my observation. White jackets, and still whiter faces, were the predominating features of the group (except where relieved by English blood and up-country brickdust), whose manners on the whole struck me as being more frank and open than those of people in England, although that freedom occasionally bordered, I thought in many, on a rough, familiar, horse-play sort of manner, which then, at least, was too common in India, where the causes which predispose to a disregard of courtesy are unfortunately too rife. Some of the party discussed politics, horse-racing, the latest news from up the country, the promotions and appointments, and so forth, in groups; whilst others, four or five abreast, stumped up and down the broad verandah, talking and laughing energetically; their spirits evidently enlivened by the rapid locomotion in which they were indulging. General Capsicum was very pleasant with the _burra beebee_, a fine stately old dame, with a turban of bird of paradise plumes, and with whom, I afterwards learned he had actually walked a minuet in the year of grace 1770. Mrs. Capsicum, surrounded by a group of military men and young writers, was endeavouring to reduce her large mouth to the smallest possible dimensions—mincing the kings English, and “talking conversation” “mighty illigant” to the whole ring, in whose countenances a certain mock gravity indicated pretty evidently what they thought of her. At last, the _khansaman-jee_, or chief butler, a very important and respectable personage, with an aldermanic expansion of the abdominal region, a huge black beard, and a napkin hanging from his _kummerbund_, or girdle, with hands respectfully closed, head on one side, and an air most profoundly deferential, announced to the general that the dinner was served “_Tiar hyn?_” “Dinner ready, did ye say?” said the general, who was a little deaf, and turning up his best ear to catch the reply. “_Han khodabund_” (“yes, slave of the Lord),” repeated the _khansaman-jee_. “Come, gintlemen; come, leedies—those who have any mind to ate may follow me.” Thus saying, the general, with great _gaité de cœur_, presented his arm to the old lady of the bird of paradise plume, and hobbled off with her, chattering and laughing, and followed by the whole company. I, the _lanky_ griffin, brought up the rear, looking, on the whole rather “small.” The _coup d’œil_ of a grand dinner party in Calcutta, given by a rich merchant or high official, is a very splendid affair, and perhaps eclipses anything to be seen in the mansions of persons of the same rank in England.