“Anyhow, that cuckoo is better than Percy Davis,” said Mr. Joseph Cox to Mr. John Dobbs, with the resignation of one who has swallowed most of the formulas. “Better that crackpot than Joe Cox,” Mr. John Dobbs confided to Mr. Percival Davis. In the dining-room of No. 8, Gladstone Villas, which was a more commodious dwelling than any this rising family had previously occupied--a contingency that was due to the recent rise in salary of its eldest scion--was seated Police-Sergeant Dodson, in his best and very highly furbished official uniform. The lustre of his hair outshone the candelabra. Police-Sergeant Dodson rose from his seat at the head of the highly-decorated table, which he had occupied with heroic patience for the last half-hour while he waited for the real business of the evening to begin, and shook each person who entered heartily by the hand--beginning with “Mother”--and hoped earnestly that one and all would make themselves quite at home. “What do _you_ think, old cock?” said Mr. Dodson _fils_, placing his _fiancée_ at the right hand of his hearty, yet majestic parent. “No sparring for places,” cried Mr. Dodson _fils_ in a voice of large authority. “You’ve got to tackle the ham, Percy, my son; and Joe Cox, you set about those ducks. You ought to be used to ’em by this time.” In spite, however, of the airy and invincible good humour of Mr. Dodson _fils_, it called for no particular acuteness of observation to detect that a gloom had suddenly overspread the company. Mr. Dodson _fils_ may even have been conscious of it himself; but, even if he was, his gay courage and inimitable _flair_ would admit no check; and, further, it was his boast “that he had a mind above trifles.” But, in spite of this, it was apparent to all that a gloom had overspread the company. “I call it an insult to me,” said Chrissie across the table to the goddess in a defiant undertone. “Jimmy will hear of this again.” “Poor form, I must say,” said Mr. Davis to Miss Sparhawk, an agitated but voluble young lady who had arrived late. “I should have thought Jimmy’s old man would have known better.” In spite of the indefatigable exertions of Mr. Dodson _fils_, who took upon himself the somewhat exacting duties of “head waiter,” the vigorous manipulation of knives and forks, and the revivifying influence of what Mr. Dodson _fils_ facetiously termed “the gooseberry”--a yellow, fizzing liquid which Mr. Jordan, with a lively recollection of a recent experience, tasted very warily, and found almost nice--in spite of all these circumstances, it was only too clear that something had passed from the gay assembly that could never return.