CHAPTER V By a little before eight on the following evening, the party I have before mentioned all sat down to dinner at Lord Lowther's in Pall Mall. Lord Yarmouth was at the bottom of the table, opposite to Lord Lowther; Amy, on Lowther's right hand, Fanny at his left; Street, the editor, was her neighbour; and I sat next to Croker. Poor Julia had not been invited. Lord Hertford, who at his own table is always particularly entertaining, was a little out of sorts here, which generally happened to him when he dined with Lowther, who gave a very bad dinner. Lord Hertford very candidly owns that he dislikes a bad dinner; and I had heard him own it so often to Lord Lowther, that I was surprised his lordship invited him at all, unless he had thought proper to have provided a good one. The claret, Lowther said, he wanted Lord Hertford's opinion about, having just provided himself with a large quantity of it, in consequence of its quality having been strongly recommended to him. Our first glass had scarcely gone round, when Lord Hertford said, in his usual, loud, odd voice, addressing Lowther, "You asked me for my opinion, and I will give it you; your claret is not worth a d--n." Poor Lowther looked a little annoyed. Croker fought on his side. "I must differ in opinion with you, Lord Hertford," said he, in his starched pragmatical manner. "I think the claret excellent." "With all my heart," said Hertford, in a tone and manner of the most perfect indifference. "How is your poetical doctor?" Lowther asked me; alluding to my physician, Doctor Nevinson, who, during a serious illness in which he had attended me, had been kind enough to sing my praise in his best rhymes. I was very earnest in my commendations of that gentleman, believing myself under some obligations to him. "These doctors are lucky fellows," Croker observed, affectedly. "Not always," said I. "I have here a few lines, poor old Eliot of the Audit Office made at my house this morning, on Dr. Nevinson's hard case;" and I put into his hand a small bit of paper which was in my reticule. "What flirtation is going on there, pray, between you two?" inquired Street, who observed me. "Nothing," I replied, "but a few bad rhymes about Dr. Nevinson." "Read! read!" exclaimed they all. Between Lord Lowther's scanty courses there was ever room for reflection, even to madness. Mr. Secretary Croker read, as follows: THE PHYSICIAN'S PRAYER TO ÆOLUS. God of the winds, oh! grant my prayer, And end this solemn frolic; Or, when I next attend the fair, Defend them from the cholic. But if thy brother of the bow To physic bind me fast, Grant that the old from me may go, For cure, to Dr. Last! Release me from the dry concern Of listening to their moaning, And from your votary ever turn Old dames with cholic groaning!