He had left him for the last month, not daring
to approach him, and hoping that some interposition,
which, however, would be all but miraculous,
would come and save him. Here it had
come. Nothing could he more suitable. With
apparent reluctance, and, as it were, doing a
favour to his friend, he with silent gratitude
sent orders to the tradesmen for wine, prime
meat and fish, the whole to be carefully packed
and sent down by mid-day train. The order was
executed with alacrity, and especially "a noble
turbot," as it was described by Mr. Tilney with
admiration, came in a basket by itself of the
shape of itself, and lay at the station an object
of speculation, the night before Mr. Tilney's
party.

Now it came to pass that Mr. Waterman had
been to a market in a neighbouring town, had
missed some good "beasts," and was coming
home in rather an ill humour. He had to wait,
a moment in the parcel-office to get some of
his own property, and, while he waited, noticed
the turbot-shaped basket and other hampers.
From a mere curiosity of idleness he looked at
the labels. They were, "—Tilney, Esq."
"—Tilney, Esq." "—Tilney, Esq."

"Indeed," he said.

This direction was written. In printed letters,
however, was,

FROM GEO. JACOCKS,

Purveyor to

H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE
AND THE COURT.

The wine, too, attracted him. He had heard,
as everybody had heard, of the coming feast;
but the "beasts" and the fair had prevented his
attending to it.

"Very good," said Mr. Waterman, flaming
like one of his own primest joints. "Very
good."

Ah, the wine and fish might have passed by,
but getting his line of food from a London
establishment—that was the unpardonable
sin.

CHAPTER XX. "HUNTED LIKE A HARE."

THE morning had come. It was a busy day.
The "noble turbot" was lying in state by
himself out in an improvised ice-house. The
"saddle" in truth, equally noble—yet someway not
so recommended by outward personal beauty—
was "hanging" in a thorough draught. What
mysteries were going on all morning, and all
noon, and all evening, up in the ladies'-rooms,
from the time that the cathedral clock struck
seven!

Below, Mr. Tilney was very busy, and in
surprising spirits. He had said, that if they could
"get in" to that day he would be "all safe."
The faithful yellow-haired Ada helped him
quietly but effectively.

"Flowers, flowers, my dear child, as many
flowers as you can get. Flowers give the true
style. I declare this brings me back to the old
days again. That was my strength, you know.
They all said it. His Royal Highness the Dook
used to say himself, no man could design a
dinner better than that fellow Tilney—his
very words, my dear. Still, I don't know,"
said Tilney, with a sort, of wistfulness, "is
it the sort of life, after all, a man to be designing
dinners and hanging about courts all day
long? Perhaps if they had put me to the Bar,
or into the Church, it might have been better.
It might indeed."

She almost soothed him in this despondency.
"You have done very well, dear uncle. All
will do very well yet. We must only all keep
up our spirits."

The old equerry had been well trained in the
arts of social foraging, and with wonderful
skill could "manage" where the whole country
would seem to be—for him, at least—quite
barren. And already in the little parlour—
which, with its windows open, and its green
Venetian blinds all down, seemed a little cool
hermitage—was the round table "laid"—a
snowy "ronde point," bright, dazzling, glittering
with crystal (to some of the glass he had
given a final polish in an amateur fashion), and
with a perfect "bosquet" of choice flowers in
the centre.

"My dear boy," he had said to many a young
man, "it is simpler to give a dinner than you
think; but it is a simplicity you only find out after
years of study. Some go on their silver; some, like
the marquis over there, on their gold plate. I
don't like to have my knife and fork squeaking and
scraping on metal. No, no; a few flowers and
some decent china, and a lady's touch, and you
have all that's wanted."

Here certainly was all that was wanted. There
was champagne below, in ice, with its sisters,
sherry and claret; and there was a small but
choice dinner getting ready.

Thus that afternoon passed by. It got on to
the evening, when the sun had gone down and
the blinds were drawn—for they were to dine by
daylight, as it was to be a charming summer's
evening. The window, too, looked out across
the cool common to the great yellow rock of
the cathedral, which, by the time the sun was
setting in rich effulgence about the middle of
the descent, would have its tower glowing and
steeped in a ruby flame like red-hot glass; by
which time, too, Mr. Tilney—sitting up stiff in a
clean starched neckerchief, and a dark blue coat
with gilt buttons—we may be sure, would have
pointed to the "noble pile" that so
picturesquely lifted its tall head, &c., &c., repeatedly
mentioned in the guide-books, and perhaps
have alluded wiih pathetic longing to the little
corner he had marked out there for his final
"going to bed in." For he would by that time be
back to his old self again.

Now it came to pass that about four o'clock
of this day Mr. Waterman had received, by
the mid-day post, an account of the embarrassment,
if not failure, of a large provisioning
house in a neighbouring town with which he had
had considerable transactions. This disturbed
his temper—always inflamed by the peculiar
nature of trade in which he was engaged—and,