Pott.
Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork
was busily engaged in taking notes of the contents of the
dishes; Mr. Tupman was doing the honours of the lobster salad
to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which no brigand ever
exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young gentleman
who cut up the books for the Eatanswill GAZETTE, was
engaged in an impassioned argument with the young lady who
did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself universally
agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select circle
complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on these
occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less
important people--suddenly called out--
'My dear; here's Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.'
'Oh dear,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'how anxiously I have been
expecting him. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass.
Tell Mr. Fitz-Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to
be scolded for coming so late.'
'Coming, my dear ma'am,' cried a voice, 'as quick as I can--
crowds of people--full room--hard work--very.'
Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand.
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