Swaying backwards and forwards in the mass, like some goodly merchantman at anchor, pitching and rolling to a ground-swell, behold the chaperon fulfilling her destiny, and skilfully playing that game which to her is the business of life. Flushed and hot in person, she is cool and composed in mind. Practice makes perfect; and the chaperon is as much at home here as the stockbroker on 'Change, or the betting-man in the ring, or the fisherman amidst the roar and turmoil of the waves. With lynx eyes she notes how Lady Carmine's eldest girl is "carrying on" with young Thriftless, and how Lord Looby's eyeglass is fixed on her own youngest daughter; yet for all this she is not absent or preoccupied, but can whisper to stupid Lady Dulwich the very latest intelligence of a marriage, or listen, all attention, to the freshest bit of scandal from Mrs. General Gabbler. But perhaps by this time you have floated with the tide into the doorway, and received from your hostess the cordial shake of the hand or formal bow which makes you free of the place. So, with patience and perseverance you work your way at last into the dancing-room, and you now see what people come here for--dancing, of course. Each performer has about eighteen inches of standing room, and on that space must be enacted in hopeless pantomime the intricate evolutions of the quadrille, or the rotatory struggles of the waltz. Sliding and smiling, and edging and crushing, the conscientious dancers try to fulfil their duties, and much confusion and begging of pardons are the natural results. However, it's a rare place for love-making. What with the music and the crowd and the confusion, the difficulty is more to make out what one's partner _does_ say than to prevent his being overheard by other people; but, I must confess, if anybody had anything very particular to say to _me_, I had rather hear it in the quiet country by moonlight, or even coming home from Greenwich by water--or anywhere, in short, rather than in the turmoil of a London ball. But that's all nonsense; and I hope I have too much pride to allow any man to address me in such a strain. Trust me for setting him down! It's no wonder, then, that I was cross when I was dressing for Lady Horsingham's ball; and that silly Gertrude (that's my maid's name, and what a name it is for a person in that class of life!) put me more and more out of patience with her idiotic conversation, which she tries to adapt to my tastes, and of which the following is a specimen:---- "Master John will be at her ladyship's ball, miss, I make no doubt;" brushing away the while at my back hair, and pulling it unnecessarily hard; no maid ever yet had a "light hand." No answer. What business is it of hers, and why should she call him _Master John?_ Gertrude tries again: "You look pale to-night, miss; you that generally has such a colour. I'm afraid you're tired with your ride." "Not a bit of it--only sleepy. Why, it's time one was in bed."