It is certain that in his own kingdom of Mayfair and St. James's my
revered uncle was at least the bankers' equal. On my coming to London, he
was kind enough to procure me invitations to some of Lady Anne Newcome's
evening parties in Park Lane, as likewise to Mrs. Newcome's
entertainments in Bryanstone Square; though, I confess, of these latter,
after a while, I was a lax and negligent attendant. "Between ourselves,
my good fellow," the shrewd old Mentor of those days would say, "Mrs.
Newcome's parties are not altogether select; nor is she a lady of the
very highest breeding; but it gives a man a good air to be seen at his
banker's house. I recommend you to go for a few minutes whenever you are
asked." And go I accordingly did sometimes, though I always fancied,
rightly or wrongly, from Mrs. Newcome's manner to me, that she knew I had
but thirty shillings left at the bank. Once and again, in two or three
years, Mr. Hobson Newcome would meet me, and ask me to fill a vacant
place that day or the next evening at his table; which invitation I might
accept or otherwise. But one does not eat a man's salt, as it were, at
these dinners. There is nothing sacred in this kind of London
hospitality. Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a man's table, and
retires filled for its service of the evening. "Gad," the dear old Major
used to say, "if we were not to talk freely of those we dine with, how
mum London would be! Some of the pleasantest evenings I have ever spent
have been when we have sate after a great dinner, en petit comite, and
abused the people who are gone. You have your turn, mon cher; but why
not? Do you suppose I fancy my friends haven't found out my little faults
and peculiarities? And as I can't help it, I let myself be executed, and
offer up my oddities de bonne grace. Entre nous, Brother Hobson Newcome
is a good fellow, but a vulgar fellow; and his wife--his wife exactly
suits him."