Mr.Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at the wrong house.

The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bedroom; a little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from the parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment, together with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the public-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the landing outside the door.
Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these arrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr.Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the fireside.

There was a sympathising expression, too, in the features of Mr.Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals, and a tone of melancholy in his voice, as he said, after a long silence--'Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just on this occasion.

She might at least have waited till to-morrow.' 'That's her malevolence--that's her malevolence,' returned Mr.Bob Sawyer vehemently.

'She says that if I can afford to give a party I ought to be able to pay her confounded "little bill."' 'How long has it been running ?' inquired Mr.Ben Allen.