I will only give one more--that of Coxhead:-- "Dear Mrs Jones, I'll come to tea; At six o'clock you shall me see.
I'm sorry Sarah's been laid up And drinks his physic from a cup.
Unless unto the contrary I hear.
My Eton suit I think I'll wear.
And now 'farewell,' as great John Knox said.
Yours truly, Samuel Wilberforce Coxhead." This effusion struck me as rather like cheek; but my mother seemed to like it.
As evening approached I began to grow very nervous, and have to confess that my mother was the cause of my concern.

I was so afraid she was not properly impressed with the gravity of the occasion--that perhaps she would not be dressed at her best--or that the tea might not be up to the mark--or that for any cause the fellows should consider they had been "done." I'm sure I wearied the life out of her by my inquiries as to the nature of the jam, as to whether the cake would go round twice, whether any of the teacups were cracked, whether the nine chairs ranged round the little room were all sound on their legs, who would open the door to let them in, whether my mother would mind not proposing juvenile games like table-turning, or clumps, and whether when the time came for them to go she would mind not looking at her watch or yawning, for fear they should think it a hint.
All which points the dear soul faithfully promised should be borne in mind and attended to, with a little quiet banter at my expense, which helped to remind me that, after all, one's mother may be trusted not to disgrace a fellow, if left to herself.
In due time she presented herself in her Sunday dress, looking very pretty and smart--quite creditable, in fact.

The tea also, as it appeared laid out on the sideboard--I had urged, by the way, that it should be served in party style, and not partaken of round a table-- looked a well-found meal for the most exacting of Philosophers.

I myself reposed in state in bed, arrayed in my Eton jacket and best collar and choker.

The fire in the hearth was both cheerful and adequate, and the knowledge that the Sanatorium maid was downstairs in her cap and clean apron, to show the young gentlemen up, finally relieved my anxiety.
In due time there was a ring, and a sound of the funereal tramp of eighteen feet on the staircase, and I knew that Mrs Jones's party had begun.
They all trooped in together, looking very grave and shy, and spick and span in their full-dress, and evidently on their good behaviour.