“Now,” thought I, as I placed myself before my glass, “shall I gently please, or sublimely astonish the ‘fashionables’ of Cheltenham? Ah, bah! the latter school is vulgar, Byron spoilt it. Don’t put out that chain, Bedos--I wear--the black coat, waistcoat, and trowsers. Brush my hair as much out of curl as you can, and give an air of graceful negligence to my tout ensemble.” “Oui, Monsieur, je comprends,” answered Bedos. I was soon dressed, for it is the design, not the execution, of all great undertakings which requires deliberation and delay. Action cannot be too prompt. A chair was called, and Henry Pelham was conveyed to the rooms. CHAPTER XL. Now see, prepared to lead the sprightly dance, The lovely nymphs, and well dressed youths advance: The spacious room receives its jovial guest, And the floor shakes with pleasing weight oppressed.--Art of Dancing. Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.--Richard III. Upon entering, I saw several heads rising and sinking, to the tune of “Cherry ripe.” A whole row of stiff necks, in cravats of the most unexceptionable length and breadth, were just before me. A tall thin young man, with dark wiry hair brushed on one side, was drawing on a pair of white Woodstock gloves, and affecting to look round the room with the supreme indifference of bon ton. “Ah, Ritson,” said another young Cheltenhamian to him of the Woodstock gauntlets, “hav’n’t you been dancing yet?” “No, Smith, ‘pon honour!” answered Mr. Ritson; “it is so overpoweringly hot; no fashionable man dances now;--it isn’t the thing.” “Why,” replied Mr. Smith, who was a good-natured looking person, with a blue coat and brass buttons, a gold pin in his neckcloth, and kneebreeches, “why, they dance at Almack’s, don’t they?” “No, ‘pon honour,” murmured Mr. Ritson; “no, they just walk a quadrille or spin a waltz, as my friend, Lord Bobadob, calls it, nothing more--no, hang dancing, ‘tis so vulgar.” A stout, red-faced man, about thirty, with wet auburn hair, a marvellously fine waistcoat, and a badly-washed frill, now joined Messrs. Ritson and Smith. “Ah, Sir Ralph,” cried Smith, “how d’ye do? been hunting all day, I suppose?” “Yes, old cock,” replied Sir Ralph; “been after the brush till I am quite done up; such a glorious run. By G--, you should have seen my grey mare, Smith; by G--, she’s a glorious fencer.” “You don’t hunt, do you, Ritson?” interrogated Mr. Smith. “Yes, I do,” replied Mr. Ritson, affectedly playing with his Woodstock glove; “yes, but I only hunt in Leicestershire with my friend, Lord Bobadob; ‘tis not the thing to hunt any where else, ‘tis so vulgar.” Sir Ralph stared at the speaker with mute contempt: while Mr. Smith, like the ass between the hay, stood balancing betwixt the opposing merits of the baronet and the beau. Meanwhile, a smiling, nodding, affected female thing, in ringlets and flowers, flirted up to the trio.