"
I was ushered to my room,--not the blue room, of which Mr. Dwerrihouse
had made disagreeable experience, but a pretty little bachelor's
chamber, hung with a delicate chintz, and made cheerful by a blazing
fire. I unlocked my portmanteau. I tried to be expeditious; but the
memory of my railway adventure haunted me. I could not get free of it.
I could not shake it off. It impeded me,--it worried me,--it tripped
me up,--it caused me to mislay my studs,--to mistie my cravat,--to
wrench the buttons off my gloves. Worst of all, it made me so late that
the party had all assembled before I reached the drawing-room. I had
scarcely paid my respects to Mrs. Jelf when dinner was announced, and
we paired off, some eight or ten couples strong, into the dining-room.
I am not going to describe either the guests or the dinner. All
provincial parties bear the strictest family resemblance, and I am not
aware that an East Anglian banquet offers any exception to the rule.
There was the usual country baronet and his wife; there were the usual
country parsons and their wives; there was the sempiternal turkey and
haunch of venison.
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