“Now, reelly, Mr. Smith, you should deence; a feeshionable young man, like you--I don’t know what the young leedies will say to you.” And the fair seducer laughed bewitchingly. “You are very good, Mrs. Dollimore,” replied Mr. Smith, with a blush and a low bow; “but Mr. Ritson tells me it is not the thing to dance.” “Oh,” cried Mrs. Dollimore, “but then he’s seech a naughty, conceited creature--don’t follow his example, Meester Smith;” and again the good lady laughed immoderately. “Nay, Mrs. Dollimore,” said Mr. Ritson, passing his hand through his abominable hair, “you are too severe; but tell me, Mrs. Dollimore, is the Countess St. A--coming here?” “Now, reelly, Mr. Ritson, you, who are the pink of feeshion, ought to know better than I can; but I hear so.” “Do you know the countess?” said Mr. Smith, in respectful surprise, to Ritson. “Oh, very well,” replied the Coryphaeus of Cheltenham, swinging his Woodstock glove to and fro; “I have often danced with her at Almack’s.” “Is she a good deencer?” asked Mrs. Dollimore. “O, capital,” responded Mr. Ritson; “she’s such a nice genteel little figure.” Sir Ralph, apparently tired of this “feeshionable” conversation, swaggered away. “Pray,” said Mrs. Dollimore, “who is that geentleman?” “Sir Ralph Rumford,” replied Smith, eagerly, “a particular friend of mine at Cambridge.” “I wonder if he’s going to make a long steey?” said Mrs. Dollimore. “Yes, I believe so,” replied Mr. Smith, “if we make it agreeable to him.” “You must positively introduce him to me,” said Mrs. Dollimore. “I will, with great pleasure,” said the good-natured Mr. Smith. “Is Sir Ralph a man of fashion?” inquired Mr. Ritson. “He’s a baronet!” emphatically pronounced Mr. Smith. “Ah!” replied Ritson, “but he may be a man of rank, without being a man of fashion.” “True,” lisped Mrs. Dollimore. “I don’t know,” replied Smith, with an air of puzzled wonderment, “but he has L7,000. a-year.” “Has he, indeed?” cried Mrs. Dollimore, surprised into her natural tone of voice; and, at that moment, a young lady, ringletted and flowered like herself, joined her, and accosted her by the endearing appellation of “Mamma.” “Have you been dancing, my love?” inquired Mrs. Dollimore. “Yes, ma; with Captain Johnson.” “Oh,” said the mother, with a toss of her head; and giving her daughter a significant push, she walked away with her to another end of the room, to talk about Sir Ralph Rumford, and his seven thousand pounds a-year. “Well!” thought I, “odd people these; let us enter a little farther into this savage country.” In accordance with this reflection, I proceeded towards the middle of the room. “Who’s that?” said Mr. Smith, in a loud whisper, as I passed him. “‘Pon honour,” answered Ritson, “I don’t know! but he’s a deuced neat looking fellow, quite genteel.” “Thank you, Mr. Ritson,” said my vanity; “you are not so offensive after all.”