from time to time, feeling bored probably, he
would poke his nose from beneath the folds of
the mantle, with a sharp yap, or a plaintive
whine. And then Lily would hear the lean
old man whispering in great trepidation to the
refractory turnspit: " Hush, for Heaven's sake,
Lindor! De la sagesse, mon ami—de la sagesse,
Lindor; remember what a risk I am running for
thee. Je t'implore, Lindor, de ne pas me
compromettre. I entreat thee, Lindor, not to
compromise me." Once, the lean old man caught
Lily looking at him. The turnspit had been
very restless. The old man covered its tiny
muzzle with both his white trembling hands,
and cast towards Lily a look at once so piteous
and so supplicating that the girl felt half inclined
to laugh, and half to cry.

She stayed here, reading newspapers out of
date, and dog's-eared romances, which excited,
for two reasons, her special wonder: first, as to
whoever could have written them; and next,
whoever could have read them before her. That
they had been diligently conned, however, and to
some purpose, was evident; for the edges were
yellow and shiny with much thumbing, and many
pages were blistered with long dried-up tears.

They were all full of love; but it was not the
kind of love that Lily could comprehend, with
which she could sympathise, or from which she
could derive any consolation. Silly girl, she
was quite raw and ignorant. She had not yet
learnt to take her heart to pieces and put it
together again, like a map puzzle. She had not
acquired the art of preserving her passion, and
boiling it down, and putting plenty of sugar to
it, and spreading it on paper, as jam is spread
upon bread. Lamentable little dunce! She was
yet at the A B C of the great alphabet, which,
being learnt, after infinite wailings and canings,
only teaches us to spell the words Disappointment
and Despair. She was quite a novice in
the cosmography of the Pays du Tendre. Had
Lily been asked to write a love-letter, it would
have begun with " I love," and it would have
ended with " I love," and there would have
been nothing else, except blots, which are the
blushes of manuscript. I have known people
who punctuated their protestations of affection.
They must have been very much in love indeed.

Here she lingered until the day was declining.
She went out at last (the mistress of the place
never heeding her), and she left the old folks
there, doddering and coughing feebly in their
chairs. Those who are alive, and the oldest
folks always seem to last the longest, may be
there, doddering and choking to this day.

Into the broad streets, and on to the broader
quay, and over another bridge; but this time it
was the Pont de la Concorde, and they were
beginning to light up the lampions in front of the
Chamber of Deputies. Then, she was in the
vast Place, by the side of the Luxor obelisk.
She could resist it no longer. She was beyond
the control of reason. She was bewildered—
fascinated. Come what may, she must see the
sight.

So she sped by the spouting fountains, and
entered upon the enormous avenue of the Elysian
Fields. The sight almost took away her breath.
It was wonderful. Two huge open air theatres,
within whose vast prosceniums whole regiments
of red-legged soldiers were engaged in deadly
combat with white-burnoused Arabs. They
fired off real guns, and real howitzers. Real
horses galloped onto the stage, not at all alarmed
by the noise, whereas the very smell of the powder
almost frightened Lily out of her wits.

But the theatres were only a drop of water in
the sea. There were Punches by the score.
There were Marionettes. There were greasy
poles up which adventurous gymnasts climbed,
intent on reaching the silver watches, spoons,
and mugs—no vulgar legs of mutton here!—
suspended to a hoop at the summit. What
shouting and clapping of hands when a climber,
his strained fingers within an inch of the coveted
prize, found the treacherous surface beneath at
length too much for him, and so slid down to the
bottom again, defeated and fat-begrimed.

There were merry-go-rounds. There were
targets at which you could fire au blanc, and if
you struck the bull's-eye, found a plaster figure
of the Emperor Napoleon arise, like a jack-in-a-
box. Ninepins; spring top; roulette playing
for macaroons; jugglers; acrobats; rope-dancers,
dancing dogs and monkeys; a camel; a bear
that beat a tambourine; a goat that danced at
the bidding of a gipsy woman dressed up as
Esmeralda; a dog that, being desired to name
the greatest rogue in company, walked straight
up to his master, wagged his tail, and barked an
unmistakable " This is he;" several other dogs,
with cocked-hats tied under their chins, military
coats, and frilled pantaloons, who performed
gavottes, looking most mournful the while; a
camel, on whose head a little boy executed a
saraband; everything, in short, that was
wonderful, and strange, and delightful.

Booths where gingerbread was sold, brown,
sticky-looking, shiny gingerbread, like Moorish
faces on a very hot day, and with great white
oval almonds in them, like eyes; booths where
sweetmeats were dispensed; where fruit and
fried potatoes, hot pie-crust—the famous galette
—and gauffre cakes were to be had—all these
abounded. And shrilly sounded above the
myriad noises of the throng, and was audible
even in the intervals of blank cartridge firing,
the voice of the man who sold cocoa. " A la
fraîche! à la fraîche!" he cried. A little round
tower, with crenelated top bristling with many-
coloured flags, and hung with gay tinkling bells,
was strapped to his back. Beneath his arm
passed the brass pipe and tap from which he
frothed his cool but mawkish beverage. Around
his body was slung a wooden cestus, and thick
hanging from it a store of goblets of burnished
tin, that shone as bright as silver. Still cried he,
"A la fraîche! à la fraîche!" his bells tinkling,
and his flags waving through the jostling mass.

There were no dandies here, no leaders of
fashion, no eye-glass wearers, no fan-twirlers.
You might look around in vain for gold watch-
chains, for varnished boots, for bright bonnets,