Places disappear in an equal degree――the old landmarks are passing rapidly away from London. Holborn-hill has gone, Temple-bar has vanished――or the last remains of it will in a few days――Vauxhall-gardens, Cremorne, are things of the past, and the once famous Argyll-rooms have received a knock-down blow. It is to this last-named place that Peace and his friend are about to pay a visit. After leaving the “Tumblers” Mr. Kempshead, who was what is called a late bird, proposed that they should drop into the Argyll-rooms. Peace gave his assent to the proposition, and the two companions paid the entrance fee and entered the inner penetralia of that establishment. They found the place thronged with persons of both sexes――the female, if anything, predominating. A few hired professionals were dancing mechanically and languidly to a very indifferent band. People did not go to the Argyll to dance; they went to see and be seen. It was a recognised meeting place――for ladies and gentlemen shall we say? Perhaps males and females would be the more correct term. If any one went there for the entertainment they were sure to be miserably disappointed. The same remark will apply with equal force to the Mabille in Paris, which is dull and depressing to the last degree. Not so, however, with the Argyll in its halcyon days. There was always a certain amount of life about it, and albeit they were many of them “frail,” some of the most beautiful women in the world were wont to display themselves at this celebrated establishment. Peace, who was always an admirer of the fair sex, was perfectly charmed with the array of beauty which met his gaze. He and Kempshead strolled through the place, observing as they did so its most noticeable features. “I never would have believed it unless I had seen it with my own eyes,” he exclaimed. “Believed what?” “Why that such immense throngs of persons should visit these rooms――then the women! I wouldn’t have missed seeing this on any account.” A fair Cyprian now came to the front, and asked them to treat her with something to drink. She had evidently some little knowledge of Kempshead, whom she addressed in a familiar manner. There was, however, nothing remarkable in this, since most of the ladies who were in the habit of paying nocturnal visits to the Argyll were generally pretty familiar with most persons, whether strangers or otherwise. “My friend is of a retiring disposition,” said Kempshead. “Indeed! I’m sorry for him, poor fellow,” returned the girl; “but let the gentleman speak for himself.” Peace drew towards one of the refreshment counters, and asked the lady what she would have. She elected to have a glass of port wine. This was ordered, with seltzers and brandies for the two gentlemen. “Your friend is from the country; is he not?” said the lady. “Yes: he’s the celebrated ‘young man from the country,’ about whom you have heard so much.” “I thought so. Going to stop long in London, sir?”