I paused to look at the dancers; a middle-aged, respectable looking gentleman was beside me. Common people, after they have passed forty, grow social. My neighbour hemmed twice, and made preparation for speaking. “I may as well encourage him,” was my reflection; accordingly I turned round, with a most good-natured expression of countenance. “A fine room this, Sir,” said the man immediately. “Very,” said I, with a smile, “and extremely well filled.” “Ah, Sir,” answered my neighbour, “Cheltenham is not as it used to be some fifteen years ago. I have seen as many as one thousand two hundred and fifty persons within these walls;” (certain people are always so d--d particularizing,) “ay, Sir,” pursued my laudator temporis acti, “and half the peerage here into the bargain.” “Indeed!” quoth I, with an air of surprise suited to the information I received, “but the society is very good still, is it not?” “Oh, very genteel,” replied the man; “but not so dashing as it used to be.” (Oh! those two horrid words! low enough to suit even the author of”--.”) “Pray,” asked I, glancing at Messrs. Ritson and Smith, “do you know who those gentlemen are?” “Extremely well!” replied my neighbour: “the tall young man is Mr. Ritson; his mother has a house in Baker-street, and gives quite elegant parties. He’s a most genteel young man; but such an insufferable coxcomb.” “And the other?” said I. “Oh! he’s a Mr. Smith; his father was an eminent merchant, and is lately dead, leaving each of his sons thirty thousand pounds; the young Smith is a knowing hand, and wants to spend his money with spirit. He has a great passion for ‘high life,’ and therefore attaches himself much to Mr. Ritson, who is quite that way inclined.” “He could not have selected a better model,” said I. “True,” rejoined my Cheltenham Asmodeus, with naive simplicity; “but I hope he won’t adopt his conceit as well as his elegance.” “I shall die,” said I to myself, “if I talk with this fellow any longer,” and I was just going to glide away, when a tall, stately dowager, with two lean, scraggy daughters, entered the room; I could not resist pausing to inquire who they were. My friend looked at me with a very altered and disrespectful air at this interrogation. “Who?” said he, “why, the Countess of Babbleton, and her two daughters, the Honourable Lady Jane Babel, and the Honourable Lady Mary Babel. They are the great people of Cheltenham,” pursued he, “and it’s a fine thing to get into their set.”