The one milliner’s shop was full of fat squiresses, buying muslin ammunition, to make the ball go off; and the attics, even at four o’clock, were thronged with rubicund damsels, who were already, as Shakspeare says of waves in a storm,
“‘Curling their monstrous heads.’”
CHAPTER VIII.
Jusqu’au revoir le ciel vous tienne tous en joie.—Moliere.
I was now pretty well tired of Garrett Park. Lady Roseville was going to H—t—d, where I also had an invitation. Lord Vincent meditated an excursion to Paris. Mr. Davison had already departed. Miss Trafford had been gone, God knows how long, and I was not at all disposed to be left, like “the last rose of summer,” in single blessedness at Garrett Park. Vincent, Wormwood, and myself, all agreed to leave on the same day.
The morning of our departure arrived. We sat down to breakfast as usual. Lord Vincent’s carriage was at the door; his groom was walking about his favourite saddle horse.
“A beautiful mare that is of your’s,” said I, carelessly looking at it, and reaching across the table to help myself to the pate de foie gras.
“Mare!” exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted with my mistake: “I thought that you would have been better acquainted with your propria quoe maribus.”
“Humph!” said Wormwood, “when I look at you I am always at least reminded of the as in praoesenti!”