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That there are people who are offended if you don’t ask them at all, is a point which I suppose nobody will question. Timmins’s earliest friend in life was Simmins, whose wife and family have taken a cottage at Mortlake for the season.

“We can’t ask them to come out of the country,” Rosa said to her Fitzroy–(between ourselves, she was delighted that Mrs. Simmins was out of the way, and was as jealous of her as every well-regulated woman should be of her husband’s female friends)–“we can’t ask them to come so far for the evening.”

“Why, no, certainly.” said Fitzroy, who has himself no very great opinion of a tea-party; and so the Simminses were cut out of the list.

And what was the consequence? The consequence was, that Simmins and Timmins cut when they met at Westminster; that Mrs. Simmins sent back all the books which she had borrowed from Rosa, with a withering note of thanks; that Rosa goes about saying that Mrs. Simmins squints; that Mrs. S., on her side, declares that Rosa is crooked, and behaved shamefully to Captain Hicks in marrying Fitzroy over him, though she was forced to do it by her mother, and prefers the Captain to her husband to this day. If, in a word, these two men could be made to fight, I believe their wives would not be displeased; and the reason of all this misery, rage, and dissension, lies in a poor little twopenny dinner-party in Lilliput Street.

Well, the guests, both for before and after meat, having been asked, old Mrs. Gashleigh, Rosa’s mother–(and, by consequence, Fitzroy’s DEAR mother-in-law, though I promise you that “dear” is particularly sarcastic)–Mrs. Gashleigh of course was sent for, and came with Miss Eliza Gashleigh, who plays on the guitar, and Emily, who limps a little, but plays sweetly on the concertina. They live close by–trust them for that. Your mother-in-law is always within hearing, thank our stars for the attention of the dear women. The Gashleighs, I say, live close by, and came early on the morning after Rosa’s notes had been issued for the dinner.

When Fitzroy, who was in his little study, which opens into his little dining-room–one of those absurd little rooms which ought to be called a gentleman’s pantry, and is scarcely bigger than a shower-bath, or a state cabin in a ship–when Fitzroy heard his mother-in-law’s knock, and her well-known scuffling and chattering in the passage–in which she squeezed up young Buttons, the page, while she put questions to him regarding baby, and the cook’s health, and whether she had taken what Mrs. Gashleigh had sent overnight, and the housemaid’s health, and whether Mr. Timmins had gone to chambers or not–and when, after this preliminary chatter, Buttons flung open the door, announcing–“Mrs. Gashleigh and the young ladies,” Fitzroy laid down his Times newspaper with an expression that had best not be printed here, and took his hat and walked away.

Mrs. Gashleigh has never liked him since he left off calling her mamma, and kissing her. But he said he could not stand it any longer–he was hanged if he would. So he went away to chambers, leaving the field clear to Rosa, mamma, and the two dear girls.

Or to one of them, rather: for before leaving the house, he thought he would have a look at little Fitzroy up stairs in the nursery, and he found the child in the hands of his maternal aunt Eliza, who was holding him and pinching him as if he had been her guitar, I suppose; so that the little fellow bawled pitifully–and his father finally quitted the premises.

No sooner was he gone, although the party was still a fortnight off, than the women pounced upon his little study, and began to put it in order. Some of his papers they pushed up over the bookcase, some they put behind the Encyclopaedia. Some they crammed into the drawers–where Mrs. Gashleigh found three cigars, which she pocketed, and some letters, over which she cast her eye; and by Fitz’s return they had the room as neat as possible, and the best glass and dessert-service mustered on the study table.