he's a waitin' in the drawing-room—said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you."
Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of profound respect:
"Mr. Pickwick, I presume?"
"The same."
"Allow me, sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, sir, to shake it," said the grave man.
"Certainly," said Mr. Pickwick.
The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued.
"We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter—my wife, sir; I am Mr. Leo Hunter"—the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded.
"My wife, sir—Mrs. Leo Hunter—is proud to number among her acquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother members of the club that derives its name from him."
"I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"You shall make it, sir," said the grave man. "To-morrow morning, sir, we give a public breakfast—a fête champetre—to a great number of those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den."
"With great pleasure," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir," resumed the new acquaintance—"'feasts of reason, sir, and flows of soul,' as somebody who wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally observed."
