I wanted her to tell me, I said, coming
up with her rapidly, and dropping a shilling
into the empty jug, where it revolved with a
jingling sound before it settled down;—I
wanted her to tell me who that young lady
was whom she had let into that house a
minute ago?

She didn't know whether she ought to
tell me, it seemed.

Of course she ought, I said—an
unanswerable argument.

Well, she supposed there was no harm in
it. "Well, it was Miss——" Hurrah, no beast
of a husband in the case! She's mine!
Where's the licence?—"Miss Fenton, and
her little sister."

"Who is she? Does she live with her
father and mother? What is her father?"

"Yes; she lives with her pa and ma, and
he's a professor of dancing, Mr. Fenton is."

"Where does he teach? There?" pointing
to the house.

"No; he have a class at the rooms in
Hangel Street."

I should like to have kissed her. Perhaps
I might without offence. Perhaps if it hadn't
been for the black upon her nose—but we
will not go too deeply into motives. It is
enough that I didn't. I squeezed her hand
heartily; thanked her, and as soon as I got
out of hearing, sung the whole of Non piu
mesta with all the variations, right to a
note.

I believe I am an accomplished dancer. It
is my happy privilege to believe that I am an
accomplished dancer. I have been told so
by my partners before now. I have tried to
waltz opposite my chamber looking-glass, that
I might see; and though I could not see,
either when it stood on the table, or when I
had lowered it to a chair, or even when I had
placed it on the floor, I yet feel convinced
that I am an accomplished dancer.

Be that as it might, to begin learning to
dance again, even under Miss Fenton's papa,
was not to be thought of, or at any rate must
be kept for a last resource. But I remembered
that it is a common practice with
Professors of dancing, to give weekly assemblies
to which the public is admitted by
tickets, and on consulting the placards
outside the rooms in Angel Street, I found, sure
enough, that every Wednesday was a Grand
Quadrille Night, admission, one shilling.

Of course she would be there—you know
—O, of course.

Large are the Rooms in Angel Street, and
the Rooms in Angel Street are dark, and a
little bare-looking withal; and it happens
that when rooms are large and dark, and a
little bare-looking, and not over full of
company, they are apt to strike a casual
observer with gloom, and with gloom was I
stricken, of a surety, and with a deadly chill,
when I entered them on the very next
Wednesday after I had read the announcement.
My hat was taken from me, too,
down-stairs, and my paletôt, and I was sent
up, feeling bare and shelterless. Even if I
had brought a stick, it would have been a
melancholy consolation. But, doubtless, that
would have been taken away, too, so it's just
as well.

Why a harp, and a violin, and a violoncello,
and a clarinet, and a fife, should not make
merry music, I don't know; but they didn't.
They were playing the English Quadrilles,
but I distinctly assert that it was not merry
music.

Why Thames mud-coloured merino should
have been selected as the favourite material
for the ladies' dresses, I don't know either,
but it was, and when any of them had a bit
of colour about them, it was commonly in the
shape of a light blue neck-ribbon; and you
must by no means say that light blue and
Thames mud-colour is a cheerful mixture,
on a cold night, with drizzling rain falling.
Well, I suppose they were very poor, and
had only their working dresses to come in,
so we must not be hard upon them.
Howbeit, there are plenty of better colours as
cheap as the greyish brown tint I have
alluded to.

One appalling feature of the assembly
remains to be mentioned:—they all knew
each other. I knew nobody. And four
young ladies, whom, by their appearance, I
should take to be Pantheon stall-proprietors,
—three in Thames mud trimmed with gray
and the fourth in slate-colour, with blue
decorations,—these young ladies, I say,
seated on a form near the door—took note
of me, with covert whisperings and gigglings,
to my soul's confusion.

Pervading all parts of the room with a
fixed smile, but yet with an undefinable
suggestion of the schoolmaster about his expression,
which I have noticed that teaching
anything always imparts, was Miss Fenton's
papa. The only individual present in evening
costume, tall, erect, and with a blessed
belief in Fenton.

I have now to relate a very strange optical
delusion. Perhaps some of the readers of
this paper may at some time have
experienced something similar. Perhaps not.
Standing in the room, then, as I have said,
just by the door, and examining the
company one by one, I at last, as it seemed to
me, detected my photographic idol dancing
in a quadrille at the other end of the room.
I didn't admit it to myself that I felt a
little disappointed in her, but I think I was.
However, there she was evidently: there
was a little look of the father about her, too
—eh?—just a little about the eyes or
somewhere? Now, I must own that to these
questionings addressed to myself, a very
guarded and hesitating assent was given by
that other part of me which I consulted. So
I went up into a gallery at one end of the
room, and looked down upon her. Well, of