“Dearest,” I said, “you see I am very small, and, I am afraid, look dreadfully young (a fear that does not long survive in the female mind), and now you know, although to-night is a grown-up ball, I have no doubt some of these horrid boys will be coming up asking me to dance” (false and fickle ingrate!). “I shall feel so dreadfully ashamed, and shall not know what to do.” My mother, who ought, I think, to have read me a homily, laughed outright, and promised to tell the lady of the house that she was not to judge from appearances, for that I was really “_out_.” The hostess was worthy of the confidence placed in her by the mother of the _débutante_, for the first man she introduced to me was an officer, quartered in the town, whose height was six feet six. Then did I feel a certain degree of doubt, mingled with a natural feeling of elation. Could I reach up to his shoulder, or he down to my waist, in the waltz that was just beginning? I believe it was the first time I had ever danced with a regular soldier, but in the course of my Hampton Court life, where the only dancing men belonged to the regiments stationed there, and at Hounslow, I have always maintained that I have danced with the whole of the Army List, or at least with the Cavalry portion thereof. In some localities the female community are in the minority, and I remember a midshipman writing home from the West Indies: “We went ashore last night to a very pleasant dance, to which they were obliged to ask every girl in the place without distinction, or how else could we have _manned_ our ball?” [Sidenote: TWO FRENCH “LADIES”] But I am anticipating events, for I have not yet left school. If all had gone well with the studies, the pupils were permitted to celebrate their birthdays by some festivity, and my favourite namesake, Mary Broadwood, and I had for the last two years kept ours together, as they were within a few days of each other. So we set to work, she and I, and made a very free translation from the Italian of one of Alberto Nota’s celebrated comedies, and having cast the company in our own minds, we gained Miss Poggi’s permission to give a dramatic representation of _The Bachelor Philosopher_, in which the two authors were to perform the two principal male characters. My namesake appeared in what our German neighbours call the “title-role,” and looked very bonnie in a dainty court dress, which showed off her beautiful leg and foot to perfection. And here I must pause to observe that Miss Poggi withstood the request which Madame Michau made, that her husband might accompany her on the night of the performance. “For, you see,” said Miss Poggi, “all our actors are ladies.” But on the evening in question, Madame Michau arrived in company with her _belle-mère_, a lady of rather a masculine appearance, whose chin had a suspiciously blue colouring; but no questions were asked, and the two French _ladies_ took the places reserved for them.