and the silver voice had so much to say, that
Lisbon flourished and was destroyed, the fight
of Waterloo resolved itself into Ascot Races,
the eruption of Vesuvius was quenched in the
waters of Niagara, and the final (pictorial)
dissolution was at hand, before its topics seemed
half exhausted. Before, however, the light
returned, the three mantillas—like phantoms—
rose, and glided away, Bobby receiving a caution
which he was well content to obey, to remain
for the moment where he was.

He had contrived to glean from his beloved a
considerable amount of information touching
herself. Here it is: Caroline de Clerville was an
Englishwoman. Though scarcely twenty, she had
been for two years the widow of a French nobleman,
who died within a few weeks of his marriage,
leaving her in affluent circumstances. A cousin
of her deceased husband resided with her as
"dame de compagnie," and a cousin of her own
—the second grey mantilla—was her frequent
visitor. Bob averred that, over and above her
exterior charms, she was the most sensible
woman he had ever known. She spoke, for
example, with the most supreme disdain of mere
personal appearance (indeed, this seemed to be
one of her favourite topics), and was constantly
inculcating the doctrine that the body being but,
as it were, the handmaid of the soul, it
mattered little in what guise it went about the
latter's work.

So charmed was Bob with these liberal
sentiments, and with the undisguised interest his
beautiful mistress took in him, that he was half
tempted to put them to the test, by revealing
his portly presence in all its rotundity, when a
letter—a sweet little letter of love—reached his
hand, containing, in a postscript, the information
that the writer would be present, on a certain
evening, at a ball given by a friend of hers, from
whom she would obtain a card for Bob.

Bob turned pale; his courage had entirely
vanished. No escape now; substitution was
impossible. Show himself he must, and that in a
costume calculated to do even more than common
justice to his size. Fancy the tight body-
coat, the swelling white waistcoat. Madness!

The poor fellow subsided into a profound
melancholy, shut himself up, refused nourishment,
would not even see me, his friend.

It was the night before the ball, at which
Bob must appear, or be for ever ruined in the
good graces of his beloved, when, as I was
calmly smoking the cigar that closed the day,
my friend burst into the room in the highest
state of joyful excitement, literally dancing
round me, and flourishing a card over his head.

"Look there, sir! look there!" he exclaimed at
last, panting for breath, as he thrust the card into
my hand, "left hand corner, George. Huzza!"

I looked. In very minute characters
appeared the two important words "Fancy Dress."

I understood in a moment Bob's exultation.

"And how?" I asked, "do you propose to
dress for it? Something loose, eh? Persian,
or——"

"As tight as possible," retorted Bob. "I
shall go, sir, as it is very fitting I should
do, in the character of my own maternal
ancestor."

"Daniel Lambert?"

"The same," said Bob, with dignity. "His
own coat, his identical waistcoat, my widest
summer trousers, a cushion here, towels there,
and the thing is done. I say, old fellow, I
wonder how she will go? A sylphide? Virgin
of the Sun? Twilight? Snow? Undine?
Yes, Undine, that's her style;" and so he bade
me good night.

The interest I felt in the result of this
singular love-affair induced me to assist at Bob's
toilet, and in truth I was astonished to perceive
how small an amount of adventitious aid had
become necessary to the exemplification of the
illustrious character Bob had selected.

After allowing him a few minutes to habituate
himself in some degree to the management of
his augmented person, we sent for a cab; but a
little more time was lost, for, on presenting our
revived Lambert on the door-steps, the man,
struck with sudden terror, departed at a gallop,
and was seen no more. A second driver, more
collected, and confining himself to remonstrance,
was quickly satisfied that the load was not so
immoderate as it appeared, and Bob was at
length fairly under way.

If the real Daniel Lambert ever went to a
fancy ball in the height of a London season, it is
to be hoped and presumed he went early. Poor
Bob had quite forgotten the unusual difficulties
that would naturally attend his getting up and
down stairs. Now, Lady Pennard's house,
though large, was insufficient for the number
invited, and when the door which, previously
open, had been duly slammed in Bob's face, in
order that the form of knocking might be gone
through, finally admitted him, hall, lobby, and
stairs presented a mass of plumed and jewelled
heads which seemed impenetrable.

Nearly an hour elapsed before Bob could
succeed in reaching the ball-room. To him. it
seemed like twenty years. There were people
coming down as well as going up, and the
remarks that emanated from the descendants, drove
Bob nearly frantic with impatience.

"Superb, indeed! I had no conception of
her beauty," remarked a Circassian, his large
false moustache tickling Bob's ear. "Madame
de Clerville is, what her costume would indicate,
the queen of the ball!"

"She rarely goes out, I think," said a spiteful-
looking Roxalana. "Such faces are not for
every-day's wear."

"Magnificent dress!"

"Looks the character to the very life."

They now approached the ball-room. Bob's
name was announced.

"What's the attraction?" asked a man at
Bob's side, of a friend in front.

"Madame de Clerville is standing up at last.
I think she is going to dance."

The crowd in front of Bob opened, and made
way for Lady Pennard, who greeted her
extensive guest with a merry smile.