Punctual to the hour —(by the way, I cannot omit to mark down my hatred, scorn, and indignation towards those miserable Snobs who come to dinner at nine when they are asked at eight, in order to make a sensation in the company. May the loathing of honest folks, the backbiting of others, the curses of cooks, pursue these wretches, and avenge the society on which they trample!)— Punctual, I say, to the hour of five, which Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Gray had appointed, a youth of an elegant appearance, in a neat evening-dress, whose trim whiskers indicated neatness, whose light step denoted activity (for in sooth he was hungry, and always is at the dinner hour, whatsoever that hour may be), and whose rich golden hair, curling down his shoulders, was set off by a perfectly new four-and-ninepenny silk hat, was seen wending his way down Bittlestone Street, Bittlestone Square, Gray’s Inn. The person in question, I need not say, was Mr. Snob. HE was never late when invited to dine. But to proceed my narrative:—
Mr. Snob may have flattered himself that he made a sensation as he strutted down Bittlestone with his richly gilt knobbed cane (and indeed I vow I saw heads looking at me from Miss Squilsby’s, the brass-plated milliner opposite Raymond Gray’s, who has three silver-paper bonnets, and two fly-blown prints of fashion in the window), yet what was the emotion produced by my arrival, compared to that which the little street thrilled, when at five minutes past five the floss-wigged coachman, the yellow hammer-cloth and flunkeys, the black horses and blazing silver harness of Mr. Goldmore whirled down the street!
It is a very little street, of very little houses, most of them with very large brass plates like Miss Squilsby’s. Coal-merchants, architects and surveyors, two surgeons, a solicitor, a dancing-master, and of course several house-agents, occupy the houses — little two-storeyed edifices with little stucco porticoes. Goldmore’s carriage overtopped the roofs almost; the first floors might shake hands with Croesus as he lolled inside; all the windows of those first floors thronged with children and women in a twinkling. There was Mrs. Hammerly in curl-papers; Mrs. Saxby with her front awry; Mr. Wriggles peering through the gauze curtains, holding the while his hot glass of rum-and-water — in fine, a tremendous commotion in Bittlestone Street, as the Goldmore carriage drove up to Mr. Raymond Gray’s door.
‘How kind it is of him to come with BOTH the footmen!’ says little Mrs. Gray, peeping at the vehicle too. The huge domestic, descending from his perch, gave a rap at the door which almost drove in the building. All the heads were out; the sun was shining; the very organ-boy paused; the footman, the coach, and Goldmore’s red face and white waistcoat were blazing in splendour. The herculean plushed one went back to open the carriage-door.
Raymond Gray opened his — in his shirt-sleeves. He ran up to the carriage. ‘Come in, Goldmore,’ says he; ‘just in time, my boy. Open the door, What-d’ye-call’um, and let your master out,’— and What-d’ye-call’um obeyed mechanically, with a face of wonder and horror, only to be equalled by the look of stupefied astonishment which ornamented the purple countenance of his master.
‘Wawt taim will you please have the CAGE, sir?’ says What-d’ye-call’um, in that peculiar, unspellable, inimitable, flunkefied pronunciation which forms one of the chief charms of existence.
Best have it to the theatre at night,’ Gray exclaims; ‘it is but a step from here to the Wells, and we can walk there. I’ve got tickets for all. Be at Sadler’s Wells at eleven.’
‘Yes, at eleven,’ exclaims Goldmore, perturbedly, and walks with a flurried step into the house, as if he were going to execution (as indeed he was, with that wicked Gray as a Jack Ketch over him). The carriage drove away, followed by numberless eyes from doorsteps and balconies; its appearance is still a wonder in Bittlestone Street.
‘Go in there, and amuse yourself with Snob,’ says Gray, opening the little drawing-room door. ‘I’ll call out as soon as the chops are ready. Fanny’s below, seeing to the pudding.’
‘Gracious mercy!’ says Goldmore to me, quite confidentially, ‘how could he ask us? I really had no idea of this — this utter destitution.’
‘Dinner, dinner!’ roars out Gray, from the diningroom, whence issued a great smoking and frying; and entering that apartment we find Mrs. Gray ready to receive us, and looking perfectly like a Princess who, by some accident, had a bowl of potatoes in her hand, which vegetables she placed on the table. Her husband ‘was meanwhile cooking mutton-chops on a gridiron over the fire.
Fanny has made the roly-poly pudding,’ says he; the chops are my part. Here’s a fine one; try this, Goldmore.’ And he popped a fizzing cutlet on that gentleman’s plate. What words, what notes of exclamation can describe the nabob’s astonishment?
The tablecloth was a very old one, darned in a score places. There was mustard in a teacup, a silver fork for Goldmore — all ours were iron.
‘I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,’ says Gray, gravely. ‘That fork is the only one we have. Fanny has it generally.’
