'Well, but will you go and call on Mr. Sponge, dear?' asked Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey, anxious as well to turn the subject as to make good her original point. 'Well, my dear, I've no objection,' replied Joggle, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye with his coat-cuff. 'That's a good soul!' exclaimed Mrs. Jogglebury soothingly. 'Go to-morrow, like a nice, sensible man.' 'Very well,' replied her now complacent spouse. 'And ask him to come here,' continued she. 'I can't (puff) ask him to (puff) come, my dear (wheeze), until he (puff--wheeze) returns my (puff) call.' 'Oh, fiddle,' replied his wife, 'you always say fox-hunters never stand upon ceremony; why should you stand upon any with him?' Mr. Jogglebury was posed, and sat silent. CHAPTER XLV THE DISCOMFITED DIPLOMATIST Well, then, as we said before, when one door shuts another opens; and just as Mr. Puffington's door was closing on poor Mr. Sponge, who should cast up but our newly introduced friend, Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey. Mr. Sponge was sitting in solitary state in the fine drawing-room, studying his old friend _Mogg_, calculating what he could ride from Spur Street, Leicester Square, by Short's Gardens, and across Waterloo Bridge, to the Elephant and Castle for, when the grinding of a vehicle on the gravelled ring attracted his attention. Looking out of the window, he saw a horse's head in a faded-red, silk-fronted bridle, with the letters 'J.C.' on the winkers; not 'J.C.' writhing in the elegant contortions of modern science, but 'J.C.' in the good, plain, matter-of-fact characters we have depicted above. 'That'll be the doctor,' said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he resumed his reading and calculations, amidst a peal of the door-bell, well calculated to arouse the whole house. 'He's a good un to ring!' added he, looking up and wondering when the last lingering tinkle would cease. Before the fact was ascertained, there was a hurried tramp of feet past the drawing-room door, and presently the entrance one opened and let in--a rush of wind. 'Is Mr. Sponge at home?' demanded a slow, pompous-speaking, deep-toned voice, evidently from the vehicle. 'Yez-ur,' was the immediate answer. 'Who can that be?' exclaimed Sponge, pocketing his _Mogg_. Then there was a creaking of springs and a jingling against iron steps, and presently a high-blowing, heavy-stepping body was heard crossing the entrance-hall, while an out-stripping footman announced Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey, leaving the owner to follow his name at his leisure. Mrs. Jogglebury had insisted on Jog putting on his new black frock--a very long coat, fitting like a sack, with the well-filled pockets bagging behind, like a poor man's dinner wallet. In lieu of the shrunk and darned white moleskins, receding in apparent disgust from the dingy tops, he had got his nether man enveloped in a pair of fine cinnamon-coloured tweeds, with broad blue stripes down the sides, and shaped out over the clumsy foot.