A bright young face peeped over the balusters of the upper staircase, and modestly withdrew itself again in a violent hurry.
Everybody but Mr.Farnaby and myself had disappeared in the dining-room.
Was she having a peep at the young Socialist?
Another interruption to my letter, caused by another change in the weather.

The fog has vanished; the waiter is turning off the gas, and letting in the drab-coloured daylight.

I ask him if it is still raining.
He smiles, and rubs his hands, and says, "It looks like clearing up soon, sir." This man's head is gray; he has been all his life a waiter in London--and he can still see the cheerful side of things.

What native strength of mind cast away on a vocation that is unworthy of it! Well--and now about the Farnaby dinner.

I feel a tightness in the lower part of my waistcoat, Rufus, when I think of the dinner; there was such a quantity of it, and Mr.Farnaby was so tyrannically resolute in forcing his luxuries down the throats of his guests.