"One pound eleven and sixpence halfpenny," replies the young lady, with glib obsequiousness, all a-twitter with excitement at being addressed by an august being in a cutaway coat who is known throughout the room to be a visitor at Felton Hall. "But, dear me!" (fussing about with unnecessary _empressement_) "I have got a much more stylish one somewhere, if I could but lay my hands on it--one that I made myself, if that is any recommendation! He! he!" (with a giggle.) "Can you doubt it?" retorts he, sucking the top of his cane, and staring at her with lazy impertinence. Meanwhile the room is getting very crowded and stuffy: it is a very small town-hall, and all Melford and the southern half of ----shire are compressed into it--the result being much animal heat, some ill-humour, and infinite grief over rent garments; which is reversing the case of the ancients, who rent their garments in sign of grief. And in and through and about this warm throng, many girls, emissaries from different stalls, go pushing and elbowing to enlist unwilling subscribers to raffles. Philanthropy has gone nigh to unsexing them; it has turned modest, reserved ladies into forward importunate Mænads. Foremost, most energetic, most unrebuffable of these emissaries is Miss Priscilla Denzil. She flies about hither and thither, with her white gown all limp and tumbled, and her rough hair pushing its way resolutely from under the blue ribbons which make a vain show of confining it _à la Grecque_. She is not thinking a bit of how she is looking; her whole soul is intent on doing a good stroke of business, and none can escape her. Sir Thomas Gerard has just entered the hall. Having ridden into Melford on magisterial business, the idea has struck him of how much better and more cuttingly he will be able to abuse the bazaar at dinner this evening if he has had the advantage of seeing it. With a dog-whip in his hand, and an intense desire to lay it about the shoulders of the company expressed in his cross face, he is pushing his way along when attacked by the dauntless Priscilla. "Oh! Sir Thomas, please let me put you down in the raffle for a fender-stool; _so_ handsome! white arums on a red ground; _do_ let me, _so_ handsome!" "A _what_, Miss Priscilla?" "A fender-stool." "Humph! the stupidest things that ever were invented," answers the baronet, snarling. "If they had been made expressly to trip people up, and pitch them head-foremost into the fire, they could not have answered the purpose better." "Did they ever pitch you head-foremost into the fire?" asks Miss Prissy, insinuatingly ("because [aside], if so, I wonder whoever was fool enough to pick you out again!") "No, and they shall never have the chance as long as I can prevent them," replies the gracious elder, walking off.