302 THE HUNTING FIELD 



Then, as he sat thinkmg the run over, and debating 

 whether he should have " beef-steak," or " mutton- 

 chop " — "mutton-chop" or " beef-steak," for dinner, 

 it occurred to him that he ought to be dining at 

 Cottonwool's. 



"Ah, well, never mind," observed he, "I said I'd 

 come if I could," and, with that easy indifference, he 

 settled both hopes and fears, and the fate of all the 

 roasts, boils, jellys, and creams. Much as women 

 may pretend to like hunting, there is not one old one 

 in a hundred who will admit the excuse of a "late 

 day " for a non-appearance at dinner, at least at a 

 "spread." Dinner, in their minds, is the grand 

 business of life, it takes precedence of everything. 

 " T^Ien have no business to accept invitations, if they 

 ain't sure they can come. All stuff about the hounds 

 — mere excuse — Mr. Spoonbill and Mr. Slowman 

 could both come away — why couldn't Sir Rasper — 

 could, if he would — where there's a will there's a 

 way ; " and then they generally wind up with the old 

 assertion, that "he'll come the next time he's asked," 

 meaning that they won't give him another chance, 

 which most likely they don't do until it suits their 

 convenience, when, like Lord Byron's lady, who 



■" Loves again, 



To be again undone," 



they invite again, to be disappointed a second time. 



Gentlemen, however, may take our word for it, it is 

 no use joking with the ancients about dinner. We 

 have reason to believe that we lost a very stiff legacy 

 from a sturdy old aunt, whom nothing could convince 

 that we were not humbugging about the hounds. 

 We had promised to dine with her to meet old Sir 

 Timothy Grumpington of Grumpington Hall, Gray's 

 Inn-road (a sweet rus in urbe on the left, as you go 

 north), and unfortunately our friend Joseph Lob of 

 Highbur}'-terrace, offered us a mount with Lord 



