They have never once thought of crying about their dinner, like the wretchedly puling and Snobbish womankind of my favourite Snob Aubrey, of 'Ten Thousand a Year;' but, on the contrary, accept such humble victuals as fate awards them with a most perfect and thankful good grace--nay, actually have a portion for a hungry friend at times--as the present writer can gratefully testify.
I was mentioning these dinners, and some admirable lemon puddings which Mrs.Gray makes, to our mutual friend the great Mr.Goldmore, the East India Director, when that gentleman's face assumed an expression of almost apoplectic terror, and he gasped out, 'What! Do they give dinners ?' He seemed to think it a crime and a wonder that such people should dine at all, and that it was their custom to huddle round their kitchen-fire over a bone and a crust.

Whenever he meets them in society, it is a matter of wonder to him (and he always expresses his surprise very loud) how the lady can appear decently dressed, and the man have an unpatched coat to his back.

I have heard him enlarge upon this poverty before the whole room at the 'Conflagrative Club,' to which he and I and Gray have the honour to belong.
We meet at the Club on most days.

At half-past four, Goldmore arrives in St.James's Street, from the City, and you may see him reading the evening papers in the bow-window of the Club, which enfilades Pall Mall--a large plethoric man, with a bunch of seals in a large bow-windowed light waistcoat.

He has large coat-tails, stuffed with agents' letters and papers about companies of which he is a Director.
His seals jingle as he walks.