“We do not know any,” said Selia, she was a bit waxy with the vexation and her shoes had a stone in. “You know my brother?” asked Mr. Withersq in a honey tone. “Such folly” snapt Selia, “he isnt the class to know any partys!” “Ah,” blushed our hero with a smile, “that’s were your wrong, for he cleans for the best, so there.” “What of it” she snapt, “once a window-cleaner always a window-cleaner, and you know well enough that such as him dont go to partys.” “This is what of it,” snortled he, for truth to tell he little liked her scorn. “This is what of it. My brother tells me there’s a monstrous party tonight at where he cleaned yesterday, with tittled ladys in galore and knites and what not for the asking, not forgetting writers and painters and such like.” “We might try our luck,” said Selia feeling a bit put down, so on they stept to Soho and egerly ran into H—— Street. When they got there, it was the house where Mr. Withersquashes brother had cleaned, and there was a piece of spotted carpet out on the footwark, and you ran up it to the door. The door was opened and they went in. Selia settled her hat on the stares, it was one of those kind that slip and sniggle your hair which is so vexing as it was rather too large, being a real Paris shapoh left behind by one of her ma’s lodgers. O what a bozz of merry crowds from above. O what a time for our little heros, but Selia muttered in her throte: “Such is not for any likes of us.” Even the galant Mr. Withersquash was half making off, until slapping the cash in his trouzers pockets with a fine rattel, he tucked Selia’s elboe in his, and burst into the room. The babbel ceased, all eyes glowed upon them. “My name is Withersquash and this young lady is Selia,” he cried very loud. “My unckel Burt is dead, he has left me a good bit. Is it all right?” “Oh how charming,” cried the assembly in shrilly tones and all pressed forward to stare closer. They were indeed fine. The ladys in all manners of colours chiefly oringe and green idly sipped up rich wine from some mugs, many smoked without a stop, there were arms and backs and fronts all bare, some frocks with tails to them, and some dames wore trouzer things, very bright and sloppy, much to Mr. Withersquashes surprise. Several kinds of men were dotted about, some in evening close, some like soldiers and many with long locks or pale fat face as though in grief which were the artists. The walls however were done up very high class in coloured paints and not at all how you would expect in gentlepeoples places. Such were the scene and the lights were low. “And how much did your dead unckle leave?” kindly asked a magnificent man of foreign stile. “Oh a few millions,” replied Mr. Withersquash.