THE MASTER— MONTH, OCTOBER n 



blanc-mange, no pyramid of jelly toppling to its fall 

 — nothing gone wrong, except the white jug of hot 

 water at the side -board end upset on the third 

 plunging of the forks and spoons, making a map of 

 Italy on the un-Turkey-carpeted part of the floor. 

 The Miss Wools have each plied a merry tongue, 

 though, between ourselves, it is not exactly the way 

 to a foxhunter's heart to interrupt him during his 

 dinner; but of that more anon. Mrs. Wool has 

 given the silent, significant hint — a hint more 

 potent than the strongest lunged sergeant ever 

 bellowed on parade — gloves, flowers, bags, handker- 

 chiefs, fans, have been gathered together, or brought 

 up from their respective collieries below, and our 

 Master gladly rushes to open the door to let the 

 well-bustled party pass. 



Each man stands, and puffs and blows like a 

 stranded grampus. 



It is now Wool's turn to take our Master through 

 his hands. One would think that Wool was Monsieur 

 Chabot in disguise, for the first thing he says as he 

 clutches his glass and decanter, preparatory to moving 

 his quarters to the top of the table is, "Would you 

 like a few more coals, Mr. Rattlecover ? " We need 

 not add that Mr. Rattlecover declines, observing that, 

 with Mr. Cottonwool's permission, he will change his 

 seat away from the fire, when, like many wise men 

 who know everything after they are told, old Wool 

 observes that he does think the room rather warm. 

 This brilliant discovery being universally confirmed, 

 they forthwith proceed to the other extreme, and 

 opening all the doors and windows, just give old 

 ^Eolus the full swing of the apartment. 



Something like a liveable atmosphere is at length 

 procured, and the business of the evening is begun 



