‘If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you’ (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate). ‘Julia is a _very_ little eater,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton. The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, ‘Ah!’ ‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, ‘what do _you_ take?’ The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, ‘Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think.’ ‘Did you say fish, my dear?’ (another frown). ‘Yes, dear,’ replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes, as she helped her ‘wretch of a husband,’ as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish. ‘James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife.’ This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen. ‘Take away, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning. ‘I’ll take a bit of bread, James,’ said the poor ‘master of the house,’ more hungry than ever. ‘Never mind your master now, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘see about the meat.’ This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present. A pause ensued, before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks, produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody—except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him. Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a prolonged interval. Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation— ‘But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.’ ‘Very ungentlemanly behaviour,’ thought little Mrs. Tibbs, ‘to talk in that way.’ ‘Ah,’ said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. ‘Tom Moore is my poet.’ ‘And mine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone. ‘And mine,’ said Miss Julia. ‘And mine,’ added Mr. Simpson. ‘Look at his compositions,’ resumed the knocker. ‘To be sure,’ said Simpson, with confidence. ‘Look at Don Juan,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. ‘Julia’s letter,’ suggested Miss Matilda. ‘Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers?’ inquired Miss Julia. ‘To be sure,’ said Simpson. ‘Or Paradise and the Peri,’ said the old beau.