"I think he's right," says I. "A circus can't be much without horses and hoops, and that fellow with the painted face; but why don't the show begin, such as it is? What do they stand there for, looking lonesome as a cider-press in winter?"
"My dear cousin," says he, looking at me sort of pitiful, "do remember it is the ambassadors of all Europe, to say nothing of South America, that you are speaking of."
"Ambassadors," says I; "so you call them by that name here, do you?"
"They represent governments, kings, and queens."
"I've seen that done in the theatre beautifully. You remember when we went to see 'Julius Cæsar,' who wanted to be King of Rome; but I didn't know as they ever did such high-mightiness off on horseback, or through a hoop," says I.
"But, Phœmie, these men are genuine. For instance, that gentleman with so much red and gold about him represents Queen Victoria."
"What, in such clothes—hat, coat, and all the rest? I don't believe it," says I. "You won't impose upon me to that extent."
"Not her person," says he, a-getting out of patience, "but her Government."