The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball. Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.

“They’re beginning upstairs,” said the stranger⁠—“hear the company⁠—fiddles tuning⁠—now the harp⁠—there they go.” The various sounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.

“How I should like to go,” said Mr. Tupman again.

“So should I,” said the stranger⁠—“confounded luggage⁠—heavy smacks⁠—nothing to go in⁠—odd, ain’t it?”