“At length, toward the finale, when S—— excelled himself in one of his master-pieces, two or three bouquets were thrown upon the stage at his feet. ‘What was that for?—why are they throwing their flowers away?’ asked Miss Esther Ann. I explained that it was an expression of admiration. ‘Dear me!’ said Jane Louisa, ‘I’d be very sorry to pay such a compliment to such an ugly fellow—he’s not fit to hold a candle to my favorite.’ The favorite immediately made his appearance in a chorus, and took his place not far from the box in which we sat. Just as he opened his capacious mouth, Jane Louisa, with the confidence of a boy throwing stones, pitched her bouquet at him. The great clumsy thing came down _flop_ against his face, breaking his _moustache_ from its moorings, and sweeping it to the floor. The galleries clapped, the pit hissed, one or two of the minor actors laughed, and it was some moments before the singing could go on. I felt, as you ladies say, like sinking through the floor; and I believe I did crouch as low as possible among the people around me. How I got back to the hotel with my tormentors I can’t tell, for it appears like a vexatious dream. I remember, however, that, while they were going up the steps, one of them said I should tell you they would call this morning to get you to go the rounds of the dressmakers with them.” This was a duty for which I had no inclination, and I concluded to dispose of myself by spending the day with a friend, knowing, from the specimens I had had of the familiarity of my new acquaintances, that the mere excuse of “very much engaged,” delivered by a domestic, would be insufficient to protect me from their society. Accordingly I went out as soon as possible after breakfast, and did not return until evening. As I had anticipated, the “country ladies,” as the servants called them, had inquired for me morning and afternoon, and had left a message purporting that they would come again next day. The following morning I had some business which called me from home several hours. When I returned to dinner, I was surprised to find the entry lumbered full of furniture, evidently from an auction—a dozen of chairs, of the kind “made to sell,” very loose-jointed, and with flabby seats of thin haircloth; a sofa to match; a centre-table, with its top, as large as a mill-wheel, turned up against the wall, and a piano, which must have had some pretensions fifteen or twenty years back, being much ornamented with tarnished brass or gilding, and supporting five or six disabled pedals. “What is the meaning of this?” I exclaimed, to the servant who let me in; “where did all these articles come from?” “Didn’t you send them, ma’am?” “I!—what in the world should I want with such things?” “So we thought, ma’am; but they came in two furniture carriages, and the man said the lady told him to bring them here—they had our number on a card.”