Once and again, in two or three years, Mr.Hobson Newcome would meet me, and ask me to fill a vacant place that day or the next evening at his table; which invitation I might accept or otherwise.

But one does not eat a man's salt, as it were, at these dinners.

There is nothing sacred in this kind of London hospitality.

Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a man's table, and retires filled for its service of the evening.

"Gad," the dear old Major used to say, "if we were not to talk freely of those we dine with, how mum London would be! Some of the pleasantest evenings I have ever spent have been when we have sate after a great dinner, en petit comite, and abused the people who are gone.