[Illustration: S]Simultaneously with the last chord of the last quadrille
the important announcement was made that supper was ready--a piece of
information that produced a visible commotion among the party. Young
gentlemen who had incautiously engaged old or ugly partners evinced a
decided desire to get rid of them, or, by the expression of their
countenances, seemed to be inwardly cursing their unfortunate situation.
Young ladies in whose bosoms the first "slight predilection" had taken up
a residence, experienced, they knew not why, a mental and physical
prostration at the absence of Orlando Sims or Tom Walker, who (how
provoking!) were doing the gallant to some "horrid disagreeable
coquettes." Mamas, who really did like a good supper, and considered it
an integral portion of their daily sustenance, crowded towards the door
that led to the comestibles, fearing that they might not get eligible
situations before the solids, but be placed among the bashful young
gentlemen, who linger to the last to pull off their gloves in order to
pull them on again, and look as though they considered they ought to be
happy and were extremely surprised that they were not.

The arrangement of the supper-table displayed the deep research of
Mesdames Applebite and Waddledot in the mysteries of gastronomical
architecture. Pagodas of barley-sugar glistened in the rays of thirty-six
wax candles and four Argand lamps--parterres of jellies, gravelled round
with ratafias or valanced with lemon-peel, trembled as though in sympathy
with the agitated bosoms of their delicate concocters--custards freckled
with nutmeg clustered the crystal handles of their cups
together--sarcophagi of pound cakes frowned, as it were, upon the
sweetness which surrounded them--whilst fawn-coloured elephants (from the
confectionary menagerie of the celebrated Simpson of the Strand) stood
ready to be slaughtered. Huge stratified pies courted the inquiries of
appetite. Chickens boiled and roast reposed on biers of blue china