five minutes past eight
To-day , Barbara , Algy , and I , are all constrained to dine ; for have not we a dinner-party , or rather a mild simulation of one ? -- a squire or two , a squiress or two , a curate or two -- such odd-come-shorts as can be got together in a scattered country neighborhood at briefest notice . Barbara and I , as it happens , are both late . It is five minutes past eight , when with the minor details of our toilets a good deal slurred , with a paucity of bracelets and lack of necessary pins , we hurriedly and sneakingly enter the drawing-room , and find all our guests already come together . Mother gives us an almost imperceptible glance of gentle reproach , but father is so occupied in bantering a strange miss -- banter in which the gallant and the fatherly happily join to make that manner which is the envy and admiration of the neighborhood -- that he seems unconscious of our entrance . An intuition , however , tells us that this is not the case , but that he is making a note of it . This depresses us so much that , until song and sherry have comforted and emboldened us , we have not spirits to make any effort toward the entertainment of our neighbors .