Mr Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr Snodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.

'Beg your pardon, sir,' said the stranger, 'bottle stands - pass it round - way of the sun,' and he emptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.

The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened.

Mr Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr Pickwick's countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr Winkle and Mr Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

'They're beginning upstairs,' said the stranger - 'hear the players - fiddles tuning - now the harp - there they go.' The various sounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.