Thus attired, with _Mogg_ in his pocket, he swaggered down to the breakfast-room, which he hit off by means of listening at the doors till he heard the sound of voices within.
Mrs.Jawleyford and the young ladies were all smiles and smirks, and there were no symptoms of Miss Jawleyford's _hauteur_ perceptible.

They all came forward and shook hands with our friend most cordially.

Mr.Jawleyford, too, was all flourish and compliment; now tilting at the weather, now congratulating himself upon having secured Mr.Sponge's society in the house.
That leisurely meal of protracted ease, a country-house breakfast, being at length accomplished, and the ladies having taken their departure, Mr.
Jawleyford looked out on the terrace, upon which the angry rain was beating the standing water into bubbles, and observing that there was no chance of getting out, asked Mr.Sponge if he could amuse himself in the house.
'Oh yes,' replied he, 'got a book in my pocket.' 'Ah, I suppose--the _New Monthly_, perhaps ?' observed Mr.Jawleyford.
'No,' replied Sponge.
'Dizzey's _Life of Bentinck_, then, I dare say,' suggested Jawleyford; adding, 'I'm reading it myself.' 'No, nor that either,' replied Sponge, with a knowing look; 'a much more useful work, I assure you,' added he, pulling the little purple-backed volume out of his pocket, and reading the gilt letters on the back: '_Mogg's Ten Thousand Cab Fares_.

Price one shilling!' 'Indeed,' exclaimed Mr.Jawleyford, 'well, I should never have guessed that.' 'I dare say not,' replied Sponge, 'I dare say not, it's a book I never travel without.

It's invaluable in town, and you may study it to great advantage in the country.