On they come, by twos and threes, in single file, in shaking groups, all equally important, all filled with a desire to get--nowhere. A novice comes running, staggering, balancing towards us; evidently her acquaintance with this new mode of locomotion was of the vaguest half an hour ago. The crowd passes on, and she must follow it; so, with a look of fear upon her face that amounts almost to agony, she totters onward to brave a thousand falls. A sudden rush past her--the faintest touch does it--she reels: her heels (that on ordinary occasions, to judge by their appearance, must be the staunchest of supports) refuse to uphold her now; her lips part to emit a dying gasp, already she smells the ground, when a kindly hand from behind seized her, steadies her with good-natured force, and, with a smile of acknowledgement, that confesses the misery of the foregoing minutes, she once more totters, trips, and scrambles to her fate. I am delighted, entranced. I find myself presently laughing gayly and with all my heart, the galling remembrance of the last few hours swept completely from my brain. I cry "Oh!" at every casualty, and grasp my companion's arm; I admire and smile upon the successful. I begin to wish that I too could skate. Here comes the adept, with eyes fixed questioningly upon the watchful crowd. Their approving glances fire him with a mad desire to prove to them how superior he is to his compeers. He will do _more_ than skate with consummate grace and ease; he will do better than the "out-side edge;" he will _waltz_. Oh, daring thought! Now shall he bring down the well-deserved plaudits of the lookers-on. He turns--one, two, three--it is a swing, a hop, not perhaps a ball-room performance, but at least a success. Eyes become concentrated. He essays it again, and again victory crowns his effort. Yet a third time he makes the attempt--alas I that fatal three. Is it that his heel catches his toe, or his toe catches his heel? The result at least is the same: over he goes; disgrace is on him; with a crash he and the asphalt meet. "It is monotonous, I think," breathes Sir Mark in my ear, in a deprecating tone, and then looks past me at Bebe. "It is fatiguing," murmurs Harriet, with a yawn. "James, if you don't get me a chair this instant, I shall faint." "It is delicious," declare I, enthusiastically; "it is the nicest thing I ever saw. Oh! I wish _I_ could skate." "It makes one giddy," says Lady Blanche, affectedly "Do they never turn in this place?" Almost on her words a bell tinkles somewhere in the distance, and as if by magic they all swerve round and move the contrary way--all, that is, except the tyros, who come heavily, and without a moment's warning, to their knees. And now the band strikes up, and the last waltz comes lingeringly to our ears. Insensibly the musical portion of the community on wheels falls into a gentle winging motion and undulate to the liquid strains of the tender "Manolo."