equally daring and unconscious, are also taking a header from the opposite end; and, alas! before either couple has time to get out of the way of the other, they meet with a violent impetus that scatters all four to the winds of heaven, or rather to the polished oak shades of the earth below. They may be severely damaged—no doubt they are; but the laugh of the multitude is ever against those who cry out under misfortune, so they all jump up again in a trice—all, that is to say, but Miss Lister, who sits on the ground and weeps bitterly, displaying a good quarter of a yard of flat ankle, that considerably mars the effect of her pearly tears. In vain her unfortunate partner assures her of his sorrow in reducing her to such a plight—in vain her friends hold out friendly hands to help her up: there she sits and weeps.
"Perhaps if Oliver were to come to the rescue she would be persuaded," says Paul; and as he speaks that gallant warrior, attracted by the crowd, and not having seen the catastrophe, approaches with much interest, and peeps over. At the sight that meets his gaze—to his shame be it spoken—he turns tail and runs.
"It must have been her ankle!" says Paul, in deep disgust. "I wonder they do not call in two stout footmen."
She gets up at last, though, with unavailing tears running down her hot angry face, and her apple-blossom wreath cocked rakishly over one eye, as though it rather enjoyed her miserable condition than otherwise.
"Let me see your card," says Paul, stooping over it; "ours is the second from this. I see your next is with Sir William Aldous."
"Was not he the man who was all nose and no legs?" I say, considering; or the one with a big forehead and no chin?"
"You are very disrespectful to your admirers," says Paul, laughing, "considering your charms brought the assemblage together."
"My charms!" I say, laughing aloud, "Are they then un fait
