Bowles, the distinguished waiter, whom my
Lord Oldcastle takes on when he sees company.
His manners, therefore, have that
ease and aplomb to be attained by moving in
upper circles.  It is to be feared he will
ignore the British Lion for that festival—
overlooking him utterly, with well-bred indifference
—the Lioness is the person through
whom he would desire all suggestions to come.

  There is a hamper unloading at the top of
the kitchen-stairs.  Strange men are busy
taking out champagne and claret glasses, and
ranging them in files.  They are littering the
whole place with straw.  It is not unlikely
that these articles are merely on hire, and
will be taken away after the festival.  Not
unlikely, either, that the gentleman who will
arrive later in a cab, with green-baize bags
containing articles of plate—an épergne and
plateau, to wit—may have been good enough
to permit the usufruct merely of his
goods.  His cab will, in all human probability,
come privily on the morrow, under cover
of darkness, and take them home.

  The Lioness has extraordinary energy and
powers of mind.  She is now in the kitchen,
now in the parlour, now everywhere.  She
has interviews with the head of the waiting
interest, and with the distinguished artist
who will superintend the preparations.  M.
Soufflet has graduated in Paris, and has good-naturedly
consented to take an interest in
the occasion.

  The British Lion, who has been hanging
about doors and passages in a forlorn sort of
way, hears the distinguished artist stating
what he will require, in a haughty imperative
tone.  It was the late F. M. Duke of
Wellington demanding supplies of the Junta.
Plenty of what is known as suet; plenty of
flavouring compounds; plenty of excellent
wine.  This last absolutely necessary, and it
might be taken to be the basis of all things.
Furious raging fire above all.  He would
take possession, M. Soufflet said, on parting,
at one o'clock precisely, arriving at that hour
with all his tools and implements.  Poor
artist!  He is known below profanely as
Mr. Soup Plate.

  Mr. Bowles is engaged in what he calls
dressing the table—a work of extraordinary
nicety, and requiring much exactness of eye.
He is long, very long, in fixing the position
of the épergne—backing to the sideboard,
coming in and out of the room, to judge of
the effect.  Wonderful, too, are the shapes he
evokes from napkins—the same as at Oldcastle
on state-days—beautiful indeed is the
work of his hands.  It were best, perhaps,
not to speak to him during this brain-work;
he will want all his faculties.  His two subordinates
—Long and Wells they are called—
will arrive by-and-by; men of experience
certainly, but devoid of that finish which
high life alone can give.

  At one o'clock, M. Soufflet has arrived with
his armoury of pans and kitchen gear.
Already is there a steam and savour through
the house.  Soup is being generated below.
Already is there a fire raging, fit for smelting
of iron ore.  Everything has been done as
ordained by the artist.  It is unfortunate
that the ordinary cook of the establishment,
should choose the occasion for being excited,
justly indignant, to use her own form of
words, at a stranger being hoisted in upon
her, and so does not enter into the matter
with heartiness.

  Another interval of a few hours, and all
things are in readiness.  The Lion and his
family are in the drawing-room waiting the
first knock nervously.  The Lioness is gorgeous
in pure raiment, giving out effulgence like a
crimson sunset.  There is a young Lioness in
white, and a young Lioness in pink.  The Lion
himself is standing on his own hearth-rug in
shining garments, but in a depressed frame of
mind.  He feels he has a terrible night
before him; great purgatory to pass through.
He has been in conflict, too, with the Lioness,
and is aggrieved by reason of certain strong
language applied to him during the forenoon.

  Bowles, the Corinthian waiter, now in full
uniform, shows himself at the door fitfully,
being troubled in his mind concerning those
last finishing touches, which, as he truly
remarked, give " a hair " to a party.  It is
long, very long, before he can please himself,
coming back to add a touch here and a touch
there, until all is perfect.  He could have
wished a little more tone and colouring, he
said, but on the whole it would do.  He was
pleased to add, by way of general remark,
that there was nothing in Natur more beautiful
than a table laid out symmetrically, and
with hart.  At precisely twenty minutes
past seven, he came to report that all things
were ready, and every one at his post.

  When the first shot came—the first knock,
at the street-door, that is, delivered with a
terrible violence—all hearts in the drawing-room
beat nervously.  In her agitation, the
Lioness addressed the Lion, on the subject
of the weather—not knowing very well
what she was saying.

  Now come sounds as of approaching footsteps,
and the Corinthian waiter stands upon
the threshold, giving out in sonorous accents
"Mr. Thompson! " (Where note, that at my
Lord Oldcastle's and such places, it is customary
to lay stress on the first syllable only
—thus the gentleman announced became
Mr. " Thompse!! " )

  This gentleman was from the neighbourhood,
asked without disguise, at about fifty-five
minutes past the eleventh hour, as
bouchetrou, or stop gap, but who rejoiced to
come on any terms.

  More commanding—more undue stress on
first syllables—company flocking in, in a drove.

  Mr. and Mrs. BANGLES! the Misses
BANGLES!!  Mr. HOBLUSH!  Captain and
Miss STARKIE!! Lull for a few minutes,
while barometrical observations are interchanged