teeth; but he would also deplore, from the bottom of his soul, our chaussures, coiffures, and choice of colours—he would lament the total absence of style, tournure, chic, whatever it may be called, that in England is so conspicuous by its absence, and, while he hankered after our red and white charms, would console himself with the recollection of his sallow spouse's matchless taste and subtle costume, perfect in every detail.
We each have a little card, or at least everybody has but me upon which are inscribed the partners selected for the dances, although it is an understood thing that if a man should miraculously appear and request the honour, the former engagement is to be considered null and void.
After all, we have not had a lottery on Paul Vasher's account, and he will be free to go where he lists, although I privately entertain very grave doubts whether he will trot out one-half the damsels who confidently expect to be asked.
The door opens, and our little music-master appears, followed by his son, bearing a fiddle, out of which he will presently harrow up our souls with shrieks that might wake the dead.
Miss Tyburn comes in. She wears maize silk and black lace; very imposing she looks as she bends, in answer to the crackling bows every one makes all round the room. And now enters the Rev. Thomas Shrubb (rector of an adjacent parish) with his wife, who wears a blue gown and a green and gold cap. Their son follows, a dyspeptic, parboiled youth of eighteen, who looks like a beast led to the slaughter, and while he gazes fatuously about him, seems dimly to understand that he has fallen among thieves. We are not proud, we school-girls; anything in the shape of a man is comely in our eyes, but we scorn to reckon this fat youth as a man or anything approaching to one.
At a sign from Miss Tyburn the fiddle strikes up, the little music-master thumps at the piano, and a quadrille is formed. Mr.
