Pottinger is sure to make an occasion of it.

It would be worth your while to be present to hear him perform." "Thanks!" said the tutor; "I'll look to you for a full account of the ceremony by and by.

I'll accompany it to slow music upstairs." But as it happened, Mr Armstrong was not permitted to escape, as he had fondly hoped, to his piano.

Raffles followed him presently to his room and said-- "Please, sir, Mr Pottinger sends his compliments, and will be glad if you will step down to the library, sir." Mr Armstrong scowled.
"What does he want ?" he muttered.
"He wants a gentleman or two to say 'ear, 'ear, I fancy," said the page, with a grin.
Mr Armstrong gave a melancholy glance at his piano, and screwed his glass in his eye aggressively.
"All right, Raffles; you can go." "What does the old idiot want with me, I wonder," said he to himself, "unless it's to give me a month's notice, and tell me I may clear out?
Heigho! I hope not." With which pleasant misgivings, he strolled down-stairs.
In the library was assembled a small but select audience to do Mr Pottinger, the Yeld attorney, honour.

The widow was there, looking pale but charming in her deep mourning and tasteful cap.