In our competition for prizes, the greater number of “extremely well” depended more on industry than proficiency, and I was diligent and laboured at my oar; so one Prize Day the Silver Medal for Music was awarded to me. When I look back on this startling incident, I blush to confess that I attribute this decoration to the over-indulgence of our little music mistress; but like many other _décorées_ I felt very proud of the unmerited honour. My dancing mistress, Madame Michau, had (if I may be allowed to say so) better reason to be satisfied with me; for, with the exception of my dear friend and namesake, Mary Broadwood, I was the best dancer in the school, and my teacher was never tired of instructing her two model pupils in boleros, cachucas, tambourine dances and the like, At that time, dancing in Society was reckoned an accomplishment, and upheld as an art, and it was not the fashion to slope and lounge through what is termed in modern slang, “Square Dances.” I can scarcely imagine a prettier sight than that presented by those frequent children’s balls, given by the King and Queen at the Pavilion at Brighton. The building, as we all know, was a ridiculous Cockney erection of a Russo-Chinese character, still, few scenes could have been prettier than the interior of the principal room when filled by groups of gaily-dressed and, for the most part, lovely children; for I agree with an R.A. of my acquaintance who said that there is nothing on earth to compare with the beauty of a little “English Swell.” Now, while I am treating of Monsieur and Madame Michau, I cannot omit to insert an anecdote of the former. Some years after I had left school, during a short stay in Brighton, I paid a visit to the dear old couple, from whom I received an enthusiastic welcome. “Enchanté!” said Monsieur, “de vous revoir, Mademoiselle—c’est à dire, sans doute, Madame?” I replied in a tone of mock melancholy: “Hélas non! Monsieur Michau, toujours Mademoiselle.” The good old man gazed at me with pity bordering on contempt, then, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed in a dejected, though somewhat sarcastic, tone, “Ah! Mademoiselle, si ce n’était que votre danse....” [Sidenote: “HAVE THE HONOUR OF DANCING WITH ME?”]