There was a fine cold collation, to which the friends of the Ladies-Patronesses were admitted; after which, my ladies and their beaux went strolling through the walks; Tagrag and the Count having each an arm of Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm a-piece to Madame and Jemimarann. Whilst they were walking whom should they light upon but poor Orlando Crump, my successor in the perfumery and hair-cutting. "Orlando!" says Jemimarann, blushing as red as a label, and holding out her hand. "Jemimar!" says he, holding out his, and turning as white as pomatum. "_Sir!_" says Jemmy, as stately as a Duchess. "What! madame," says poor Crump, "don't you remember your shopboy?" "Dearest mamma, don't you recollect Orlando?" whimpers Jemimarann. "Miss Tuggeridge Coxe," says Jemmy, "I'm surprised of you. Remember, sir, that our position is altered, and oblige me by no more familiarity." "Insolent fellow!" says the Baron; "vat is dis canaille?" "Canal yourself, Mounseer," says Orlando, now grown quite furious; he broke away, quite indignant, and was soon lost in the crowd. Jemimarann, as soon as he was gone, began to look very pale and ill; and her mamma, therefore, took her to a tent, where she left her along with Madame Flicflac and the Baron; going off herself with the other gentlemen, in order to join us. It appears they had not been seated very long when Madame Flicflac suddenly sprung up, with an exclamation of joy, and rushed forward to a friend whom she saw pass. The Baron was left alone with Jemimarann; and, whether it was the champagne, or that my dear girl looked more than commonly pretty, I don't know; but Madame Flicflac had not been gone a minute when the Baron dropped on his knees, and made her a regular declaration. Poor Orlando Crump had found me out by this time, and was standing by my side, listening, as melancholy as possible, to the famous Bohemian Minne-singers, who were singing the celebrated words of the poet Gothy: Ich bui ya hupp lily lee, du bist ya hupp lily lee, Wir sind doch hupp lily lee, hupp la lily lee. Chorus.—Yodle-odle-odle-odle-odle-odle hupp! yodle-odle-aw-o-o-o. They were standing with their hands in their waistcoats, as usual, and had just come to the o-o-o, at the end of the chorus of the forty-seventh stanza, when Orlando started: "That's a scream!" says he. "Indeed it is," says I; "and, but for the fashion of the thing, a very ugly scream too:" when I heard another shrill "O!" as I thought; and Orlando bolted off, crying, "By heavens, it's _her_ voice!" "Whose voice?" says I. "Come and see the row," says Tag; and off we went, with a considerable number of people, who saw this strange move on his part. We came to the tent, and there we found my poor Jemimarann fainting; her mamma holding a smelling-bottle; the Baron, on the ground, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose; and Orlando squaring at him, and calling on him to fight if he dared.