One day, then, coming home from the Club, Mr. Gray conveyed to his wife
the astounding information that he had asked Goldmore to dinner.
'My love,' says Mrs. Gray, in a tremor, 'how could you be so cruel? Why,
the dining-room won't hold Mrs. Goldmore.'
'Make your mind easy, Mrs. Gray; her ladyship is in Paris. It is only
Croesus that's coming, and we are going to the play afterwards--to
Sadler's Wells. Goldmore said at the Club that he thought Shakspeare was
a great dramatic poet, and ought to be patronized; whereupon, fired with
enthusiasm, I invited him to our banquet.'
'Goodness gracious! what CAN we give him for dinner? He has two French
cooks; you know Mrs. Goldmore is always telling us about them; and he
dines with Aldermen every day.'
'"A plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, I prythee get ready at three; Have it
tender, and smoking, and juicy, And what better meat can there be?"'
says Gray, quoting my favourite poet.
'But the cook is ill; and you know that horrible Pattypan the
pastrycook's---'
'Silence, Frau!' says Gray, in a deep tragedy voice. 'I will have the
ordering of this repast. Do all things as I bid thee. Invite our friend
Snob here to partake of the feast. Be mine the task of procuring it.'
'Don't be expensive, Raymond,' says his wife.
'Peace, thou timid partner of the briefless one. Goldmore's dinner shall
be suited to our narrow means.
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