Shrubb leads out Miss Tyburn with tottering steps (at his time of life he ought to know better), his wife sinks into an easy chair; the fat boy advances a step, apparently meditating a plunge into the sea of white muslin before him, gasps, blinks, ruminates, thinks better of it, and finally sits down, puffing apoplectically. "Gentlemen girls fetch out their lady partners, and lead them to their places.
"If there is anything I hate," says Laura Fielding, as she sweeps her pale pink skirts over my feet, "it is having a girl's arm round my waist!"
The room is one struggling mass of tarlatan, muslin, and barège; every now and then a hitch occurs, and half a dozen young women get firmly wedged together by their hoops, and are disentangled with great difficulty. In the ladies' chain, too, there is some confusion, but one can't expect everything. The old vicar sets, bows, and shuffles with the rest most valiantly; like the Shaker of Artemus Ward memory. The dance over, every one who can, sits down and drinks negus; which might be better, but then, on the other hand, might be worse. The fiddler is just executing a preparatory scrape, that seems to take his hearers into the very bowels of the earth, when the door opens, and enter Mr. Frere and Mr. Vasher. As the latter stands talking to Miss Tyburn, I see him glance about him with a keen amusement; then, as the music strikes up, he leaves her and comes straight to the corner where I lie perdu.
"This is our dance," he says, placing my hand under his arm, disregarding my murmurs of dissent with masculine sang froid.
I feel my shortcomings very grievously, as he leads me forth. How I wish my gown were not so rusty, and that my boots did not curl up at the toes quite so much, seeming to require chains, as did those of our ancestors long ago. He puts his strong arm about my waist, and away we go; but, alas! if a lamp-post and a bottle
