after dinner-time, and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual,
because of the fine trout the squire sent us. Will you venture on what
our homely language calls 'pot-luck,' Doctor?"

Now Riccabocca was a professed philosopher, and valued himself on his
penetration into the motives of human conduct. And when the parson thus
invited him to pot-luck, he smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for
Mrs. Dale enjoyed the reputation of having what her friends styled "her
little tempers." And, as well-bred ladies rarely indulge "little
tempers" in the presence of a third person not of the family, so Dr.
Riccabocca instantly concluded that he was invited to stand between the
pot and the luck! Nevertheless--as he was fond of trout, and a much more
good-natured man than he ought to have been according to his principles--
he accepted the hospitality; but he did so with a sly look from over his
spectacles, which brought a blush into the guilty cheeks of the parson.
Certainly Riccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimate of human
motives.

The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and
entered the parsonage lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sat on watch
for their master, sprang towards him, barking; and the sound drew the
notice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash
window which opened on the lawn. Now, O reader! I know that, in thy
secret heart, thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in the sacred
arcana of the domestic hearth betrayed by the author; thou art saying to
thyself, "A pretty way to conciliate 'little tempers' indeed, to add to
the offence of spoiling the fish the crime of bringing an unexpected
friend to eat it. Pot-luck, quotha, when the pot 's boiled over this
half hour!"