The Reverend burst out laughing. The last argument was irresistible. “Have it your own way, Dottie,” said he; “I must be off to write my sermon.” And he betook himself to his study accordingly, leaving his wife and daughter to issue the invitations.
Of these it is unnecessary for us to trace the delivery of more than one. Mr. Sawyer, eating devilled kidneys the following morning for breakfast, felt his heart leap into his mouth at the reception of a primrose-coloured, highly-scented billet, in a long narrow envelope, bearing on the reverse what is called a “monogram”—a thing not unlike the puzzle-wit lock on a gate—consisting of the letter D and others twisted into every variety of shape. Though his experience in ladies’ letters was limited, being indeed confined to one from Miss Mexico at the conclusion of their intercourse, in which she “wished to have no further communication with him, but hoped always to remain _friends_,” something told him that the delicate, neatly-written superscription must have been indited by a fair hand. For an instant, the delightful suggestion flashed across him, that Miss Dove, forgetting maidenly reserve in the ardour of her affection, had plunged into a correspondence with himself, and he turned hot and cold by turns. Opening the missive with a trembling hand, it proved to be, if not from the young lady, at least from her mamma, and as it lay open all that day on his table, it is no breach of confidence on my part to publish its contents for the reader’s benefit. Thus it ran:—
“Can you give us the pleasure of your company at dinner on Tuesday next, at half-past seven o’clock? Mr. Dove desires me to say that as you will probably drive, you had better not attempt the short way, but come by the high-road. My daughter unites with me in hoping that your poor horse has recovered the hard day in which he carried you so well, and I remain,
There is nothing ambiguous in the above. It seems a simple invitation to dinner enough; you or I can gather its drift at a glance. Why the man should have read it over at least half-a-dozen times is more than I can divine.
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MEANWHILE in the stable of the Honourable Crasher is considerable consternation and bewilderment. The helpers look wise, and wink at each other, as they pass from stall to stall, in the execution of their duties. Mr. Tiptop is completely at his wits’ end. Can he, the knowing Tiptop, looked up to as the great unerring authority on training, pace, weight for age, and other racing mysteries—Newmarket all over—can he have made a mistake? He begins to think, not only that he _can_, but that he _has_.