room they succeeded no better than in the front:—here, Miss Charmer was top of the dance, as she always is, if it can be obtained; especially in the Lancers or Caledonians (which, we dare say, are pleasant quadrilles to those who know them, and the Charmer does). Well, she is top, with young Hoy (heir to Sir Hobbedy), for a partner, a brave youth at quoits, cricket, boxing, or boating—his hands, horny as a tortoise and large as Polyphemus’, over which he split three right-hand gloves:—a glance will suffice to show how much he is out of his, and she in her, element—Miss Charmer looking, Lark said, as if she would prefer performing the “first set” (or sit) upon a vacant seat, beside Arthur Beau, who has just arrived, and by whom, we know, she disliked to be quizzed;—so, upon the completion of the first eight bars, the Charmer flounced, bringing the flounces of her dress into contact with the bars of the grate, causing the smoke to come out, and Arthur to come round, that he might lean upon the shelf, engage himself for the next dance, and stand behind the fair partner, a fire-guard of honour, unable to keep from smiling at Mr. Hoy, who dances upon his heels, as though enamoured of his large feet, and afraid of knocking his head against the chandelier. Their vis-à-vis is a lively lady, apparently taking stock of a bouquet, but, in reality, joking an absent gentleman, opposite:—it is Miss Gay, whom Lark (her partner) is making laugh, by observing—the gentleman is not so absent as he ought to be; causing that lady to forget herself—making many mistakes and false starts; which, being those of a person who knew better, were very diverting. Miss Gay is voluble as volatile, no subject coming
amiss—she is now speculating as to how far the gentlemen will permit the buttons to travel down their backs, or their skirts to be curtailed; and Mr. Lark, unable to find a reason, must get up a contrary supposition—imagining some middle-aged ladies to resemble a cork-screw, as they have at different periods shifted the waist from the armpits downward;—waists making us think of the short lady (in this set) with a very long one—Miss Price, only child of Alderman Price, chandler and dry-salter, of Candlewick ward—daughter and hair, as Mr. Lark jocosely observed, in allusion to the luxuriant red tresses of that lady;—saying her papa was the great crony of Sir Rich. Big, the free vintner, late of Portsoken ward, who was found, or rather not found—having evaporated of spontaneous combustion, before he could get to the civic chair,—leaving all his money to Price; who has retired, with his fat and the gout, to Bayswater. Miss Price is a lovely dancer, appearing hollow (a thing Miss Gay did not doubt), like an India rubber ball in flounces; she is said to have a beautiful hand, so small as to require only No. 6. gloves—as if a pigmy hand could not be a deformity. She is invited, in a hope that young Brown may make her a partner, for the dance of life; and is said to be worth £150,000—not by the pound weight, as the envious Miss Gay hinted.—No! No! naughty Miss Gay, be satisfied with Nature’s gifts, and do not covet lucre.
Here comes young Brown, who has not danced before, to make arrangements with Miss Gay, who has—and proved herself the belle
of the room;—but, as gentlemen are now in the minority, she does not hint at being “engaged for the next,” or propose “the one after.”
There is a temporary lull, after the dance:—and in comes Captain de Camp, looking like a macaw in a dress-coat, leading Lady Lucretia de Camp, who resembles an apoplectic canary—so glittering is the amber satin,—followed by the sons, who meander amongst the beaux and bare shoulders, in search of the Miss Browns—dancing with no one else all the evening,—causing the gentlemen to think very little of the De Camps, and the ladies less of the Miss Browns. Now, then, for a polka!—the rattling “Post knock Polka!”—Off! away they go, after a great deal of reluctance and playful diffidence as to who should lead off—Miss Charmer with Arthur Beau, twirling round and round, in and out (like an eel among skittles); followed by Mr. Latimer and Miss Jemima, who evidently intended to do great things, but only cause confusions and contusions, until they get knocked into the open space, in the centre of the human vortex—the Charmer spinning, as a top that could not stop, while the music continued, like the automata in front of a street organ. There, there they go!—that is Lord Towney—he who came with Mr. Serjeant Wideawake, the Honourable Member for Bloomsbury—the fellow who got acquainted with Brown, as brother-director of the “Dodo Assurance,” that didn’t do, and was done up. His Lordship is son of the Marquis of Mary-le-bone—he that is flying with the pink flounces,—the buoyant, hollow, Miss Price, whose pretty button of a nose we do
believe was
impressed with the basket-work on her partner’s fourth shirt-stud. Round and round they twist—backwards, forwards, and sideways,—between parties parted, and openings that close again,—faster and faster,—smiling, frowning, and apologizing,—growing swifter and swifter,—until the floor snapped, and rebounded with an awful crash.
****
The visitors are in the room below—a scene of ruin and rueful faces;—the supper that was displayed there, in all its state, is done for. Alas!—the chandelier has been polked off the hook—a mishap in which few sympathise, for the floor is said to be safe; Mr. Lark being the first to propose their going above, as he jokingly observed—to crack the party-wall. Now, for that vastly-relished valse, the “Teetotum”—liked none the less for the late excitement!—deux temps against trois