At eight o’clock on the evening of Mrs Godesdone’s party Mr Norrell in his best grey coat was seated in his carriage, wondering about Mrs Godesdone’s dear friend, Drawlight, when he was roused to a realization that the carriage was no longer moving. Looking out of the window he saw a great lamp-lit chaos of people, carriages and horses. Thinking that everyone else must find the London streets as confusing as he did, he naturally fell into the supposition that his coachman and footman had lost their way and, banging on the roof of the carriage with his stick, he cried, “Davey! Lucas! Did not you hear me say Manchester-street? Why did you not make sure of the way before we set off?”

Lucas, on the box-seat, called down that they were already in Manchester-street, but must wait their turn – there was a long line of carriages that were to stop at the house before them.

“Which house?” cried Mr Norrell.

The house they were going to, said Lucas.

“No, no! You are mistaken,” said Mr Norrell. “It is to be a small gathering.”

But on his arrival at Mrs Godesdone’s house Mr Norrell found himself instantly plunged into the midst of a hundred or so of Mrs Godesdone’s most intimate friends. The hall and reception rooms were crowded with people and more were arriving at every moment. Mr Norrell was very much astonished, yet what in the world was there to be surprized at? It was a fashionable London party, no different from any other that might be held at any of half a dozen houses across Town every day of the week.

And how to describe a London party? Candles in lustres of cut-glass are placed everywhere about the house in dazzling profusion; elegant mirrors triple and quadruple the light until night outshines day; many-coloured hot-house fruits are piled up in stately pyramids upon white-clothed tables; divine creatures, resplendent with jewels, go about the room in pairs, arm in arm, admired by all who see them. Yet the heat is over-powering, the pressure and noise almost as bad; there is nowhere to sit and scarce anywhere to stand. You may see your dearest friend in another part of the room; you may have a world of things to tell him – but how in the world will you ever reach him? If you are fortunate then perhaps you will discover him later in the crush and shake his hand as you are both hurried past each other. Surrounded by cross, hot strangers, your chance of rational conversation is equal to what it would be in an African desert. Your only wish is to preserve your favourite gown from the worst ravages of the crowd. Every body complains of the heat and the suffocation. Every body declares it to be entirely insufferable. But if it is all misery for the guests, then what of the wretchedness of those who have not been invited? Our sufferings are nothing to theirs! And we may tell each other tomorrow that it was a delightful party.