Mr. Preston had many causes for rejoicing: he might have forgotten
this discomfiture, as he chose to feel it, in the remembrance of
an increase of income, and in the popularity he enjoyed in his new
abode. All Hollingford came forward to do the earl's new agent
honour. Mr. Sheepshanks had been a crabbed, crusty old bachelor,
frequenting inn-parlours on market days, not unwilling to give
dinners to three or four chosen friends and familiars, with whom,
in return, he dined from time to time, and with whom, also, he kept
up an amicable rivalry in the matter of wines. But he "did not
appreciate female society," as Miss Browning elegantly worded his
unwillingness to accept the invitations of the Hollingford ladies.
He was even unrefined enough to speak of these invitations to his
intimate friends aforesaid as "those old women's worrying," but, of
course, they never heard of this. Little quarter-of-sheet notes,
without any envelopes--that invention was unknown in those days--but
sealed in the corners when folded up instead of gummed as they are
fastened at present--occasionally passed between Mr. Sheepshanks
and the Miss Brownings, Mrs. Goodenough or others. From the
first-mentioned ladies the form ran as follows:--"Miss Browning
and her sister, Miss Phoebe Browning, present their respectful
compliments to Mr. Sheepshanks, and beg to inform him that a few
friends have kindly consented to favour them with their company at
tea on Thursday next. Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe will take it
very kindly if Mr. Sheepshanks will join their little circle."
Now for Mrs. Goodenough.
"Mrs. Goodenough's respects to Mr. Sheepshanks, and hopes he is in
good health. She would be very glad if he would favour her with his
company to tea on Monday. My daughter, in Combermere, has sent me a
couple of guinea-fowls, and Mrs. Goodenough hopes Mr. Sheepshanks
will stay and take a bit of supper."
No need for the dates of the days of the month. The good ladies would
have thought that the world was coming to an end if the invitation
had been sent out a week before the party therein named. But not even
guinea-fowls for supper could tempt Mr. Sheepshanks. He remembered
the made-wines he had tasted in former days at Hollingford parties,
and shuddered. Bread-and-cheese, with a glass of bitter-beer, or a
little brandy-and-water, partaken of in his old clothes (which had
worn into shapes of loose comfort, and smelt strongly of tobacco),
he liked better than roast guinea-fowl and birch-wine, even without
throwing into the balance the stiff uneasy coat, and the tight
neckcloth and tighter shoes. So the ex-agent had been seldom, if
ever, seen at the Hollingford tea-parties. He might have had his form
of refusal stereotyped, it was so invariably the same.