There might be about thirty, and Frank was inclined to think that they were almost crowded.

A man came forward to greet them when their names were announced; but our hero at once knew that he was not the duke; for this man was fat and short, whereas the duke was thin and tall.
There was a great hubbub going on; for everybody seemed to be talking to his neighbour; or, in default of a neighbour, to himself.

It was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little constraint on his guests' tongues, for they chatted away with as much freedom as farmers at an ordinary.
"Which is the duke ?" at last Frank contrived to whisper to his cousin.
"Oh;--he's not here," said George; "I suppose he'll be in presently.
I believe he never shows till just before dinner." Frank, of course, had nothing further to say; but he already began to feel himself a little snubbed: he thought that the duke, duke though he was, when he asked people to dinner should be there to tell them that he was glad to see them.
More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance.

He was not badly off, for Mr Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a living near Greshamsbury.

Lately, however, at the lamented decease of Dr Stanhope--who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy--Mr Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Eiderdown, and had, therefore, removed to another part of the county.