entertainment besides—and had instructed him
to lay out a neat little repast in one of the
arbours overlooking the covered promenade:
something toothsome in the way of cold chickens,
lobster-salad, champagne, and that rack punch,
for the concoction of which Ranelagh had
earned so world-wide and well-deserved a fame.
The quantities of rack punch drunk at Ranelagh
by his late Royal Highness the Prince
Regent, assisted by Philip Duke of Orleans
and Colonel Hanger! The statistician staggers
at the task of enumeration.

The sultan was by this time weary of the
horse-riding, and strolled down with his lordship,
lisping flippant disparagement of the "dreadful
painted old woman" who had presumed to inflict
her forty years upon him. If the countess could
only have heard that complacent sultan's
criticism! There was life, and muscle, and devil in
her still; and I believe that the protégée of La
Beugleuse would have essayed to tear the dandy
limb from limb.

Sir William Long was glad to slip away
from companions with whom he had scant
sympathy. The sleepy peer bored him; and
Greyfaunt's arrogance and petit-maître assumptions
irritated him beyond measure: he could scarcely
tell why. "I am growing crabbed and morose,"
Sir William reasoned; "my liver must be out
of order. I was wont to be tolerant of puppies.
This young fellow is not an arranter donkey
than hundreds of his race who hang about
town; yet his drawling insolence makes me
quiver all over with a desire to knock him
down. Decidedly we are as oil and vinegar,
Monsieur Greyfaunt and I." He called him
"Monsieur," the further to disparage him in
the eyes of himself—the baronet of unmingled
English lineage.

Fortuitously he met Tom Tuttleshell returning
beaming from his interview with the special
waiter. He liked Tom, and, although using him,
as most men did that obliging soul, did not
despise him.

"Tom," said the baronet, "you are just the
fellow to do me a service."

"What is it, Sir William?" asked Tom, who
would have tried to jump through one of the
hoops, or to attempt the high school of
horsemanship itself, if any one had asked him
affably.

"I want to go behind the scenes of the
circus."

Tom rubbed his left whisker with a puzzled
air. "I have heard of scenes in the circus," he
rejoined; "but there are no scenes behind it, that
I am aware of. There's not much to see in the
place where the horse-riders go between the
performances, if that's what you mean. Stables
and sawdust, and grooms, and lots of people
cursing and swearing dreadfully. Those
horse-riders are a rough lot. Very dull and very dirty,
and so on."

"Never mind what kind of a place it is. I
wish to see it. Will you pass me through? or
shall I ask Mr. M'Variety?.

"No need to do that, Sir William. I'll get
you in, of course. I have the Open, sesame! all
over the gardens."

Tom seemed to have the Open, sesame!
everywhere. They used to say he had a master-key
to the bullion vaults of the Bank of England,
the tea-room at Almack's, the omnibus-box at
Her Majesty's, the copper door in the wall of
Northumberland House, and the cage where
the crown is kept in the Tower of London.

He led the baronet to a little door of
unpainted wood, on which were rudely red-ochred
the words—"No admittance except on
business." Sir William told him where to find Lord
Carlton, and Tom, after sundry cabalistic
signs and occult whispers which made it "all
right" with the doorkeeper (who looked half
like a groom, and half like a gravedigger, and
was, in truth, by day, a kind of under-gardener
and odd man, who looked about the parterres
and bosquets of Ranelagh), went on his way,
rejoicing.

This was not the first theatre, or semi-theatre,
by many scores, to the penetralia of which Sir
William Long had in his time gained
admittance. From the Italian Opera House to the
little dramatic hovels of country towns,
"Behind the Scenes" was a familiar locality to him.
From experience, he knew that the best course
to pursue in these strange places was to keep
straight on, until somebody halloaed to him to
stop.

He heard the loud, angry tones of a woman's
voice; and he knew at once whose voice it was.

He was in a kind of alley, or sawdusted gangway,
smelling very strongly of gas, orange-peel,
and horse-litter, leading ono ne hand to the stables,
and on the other to a range of closets rudely
partitioned off with planks and used as dressing-
rooms by the ladies and gentlemen of the equestrian
company. He was bidden to "get out of
the vay there" by a groom, who was leading a
very stout and peaceful Dobbin, with a mild,
watery eye, a very round nose, and a coat covered
all over with spots, like black wafers. This was
the celebrated educated pony Rasselas, that
played at chess (invariably checkmating the
clown), drank port wine, and made believe to
read the Supplement of the Times newspaper.

Stepping aside to avoid this erudite animal,
Sir William found himself close to one of the
dressing-rooms just mentioned, and the door of
which was more than half open. A lady in a
riding-habit, the trail of the skirt thrown over
her arm, was standing on the threshold, her
back towards him, and raging fearfully.

Her conversation and her ire were apparently
levelled at some person inside the
dressing-room.

"You nasty, lazy, idle, worthless little
wretch," she cried out, "you've sewn the lining
in my hat so badly that it all but tumbled off
and ruined my act. Look at it—look at it, you
slovenly little cat. Look at it, you
good-for-nothing, do-nothing pauper!"

With which agreeable and considerate
remarks she absolutely wrenched the unsatisfactory
beaver from off her head, and flung it from