“Why not buffle the whole company, my lord?” said Masaroon, while Mr. Dubbin talked apart with Lady Euphemia, who had come from the other end of the barge to warn her husband against excess in Rhenish or Burgundy. “You are good at disguises. Why not act the ghost and frighten everybody out of their senses?” “Il n’y a pas de quoi, Ralph. The creatures have no sense to be robbed of. They are second-rate fashion, which is only worked by machinery. They imitate us as monkeys do, without knowing what they aim at. Their women have virtuous instincts, but turn wanton rather than not be like the maids of honour; and because we have our duels their men murder each other for a shrugged shoulder or a casual word. No, I’ll not chalk my face or smear myself with phosphorus to amuse such trumpery. It was worth my pains to disguise myself as a German Nostradamus, in order to fool the lovely Jennings and her friend Price—who won’t easily forget their adventures as orange-girls in the heart of the city. But I have done with all such follies.” “You are growing old, Wilmot. The years are telling upon your spirits.” “I was nineteen last birthday, and ’tis fit I should feel the burden of time, and think of virtue and a rich wife.” “Like Mrs. Mallet, for example.” “Faith, a man might do worse than win so much beauty and wealth. But the creature is arrogant, and calls me ‘child;’ and half the peerage is after her. But we’ll have our jest with the city scrub, Ralph; not because I bear him malice, but because I hate his wife. And we’ll have our masquerading some time after midnight; if you can borrow a little finery.” Mr. Dubbin was released from his lady’s _sotto voce_ lecture at this instant, and Lord Rochester continued his communication in a whisper, the Honourable Jeremiah assenting with nods and chucklings, while Masaroon whistled for a fresh tankard, and plied the honest merchant with a glass which he never allowed to be empty. The taste for masquerading was a fashion of the time, as much as combing a periwig, or flirting a fan. While Rochester was planning a trick upon the citizen, Lady Fareham was whispering to De Malfort under cover of the fiddles, which were playing an Italian pazzemano, an air beloved by Henrietta of Orleans, who danced to that music with her royal brother-in-law, in one of the sumptuous ballets at St. Cloud. “Why should they be disappointed of their ghost,” said Hyacinth, “when it would be so easy for me to dress up as the nun and scare them all? This white satin gown of mine, with a few yards of white lawn arranged on my head and shoulders——”