Now and then, it is true, he wished they were with him; he'd have liked to show the foreigners “what an Irish girl was;” he would have been pleased, too, that his handsome boy should have been seen amongst “them grinning baboons, with hair all over them.” He desired this the more, that Nelly would never venture into public with him, or, if she did, it was with such evident shame and repugnance that even his selfishness could not exact the sacrifice. “'T is, maybe, the sight of the dancing grieves her, and-she lame,” was the explanation he gave himself of this strange turn of mind; and whenever honest Peter had hit upon what he thought was a reason for anything, he dismissed all further thought about the matter forever. It was a debt paid, and he felt as if he had the receipt on his file. On the day we now speak of he was supremely happy. An Irish peer had come into the Saal leaning on his arm, and twice called him “Dalton” across the table. The waiter had apologized to a royal highness for not having better Johannisberg, as the “Schloss” wine had all been reserved for the “Count,” as Peter was styled. He had won four hundred Napoleons at roulette before dinner; and a bracelet, that cost a hundred and twenty, was glittering on a fair wrist beside him, while a murmur of his name in tones of unquestionable adulation, from all parts of the table, seemed to fill up the measure of his delight. “What's them places vacant there?” called he out to the waiter, and pointing to five chairs turned back to the table in token of being reserved. “It was an English family had arrived that morning who bespoke them.” “Faix! then, they 're likely to lose soup and fish,” said Peter; “the 'coorses' here wait for no man.” And as he spoke the party made their appearance. A large elderly lady of imposing mien and stately presence led the way, followed by a younger and slighter figure; after whom walked a very feeble old man, of a spare and stooping form; the end being brought up by a little rosy man, with a twinkling eye and a short jerking limp, that made him seem rather to dance than walk forward. “They've ca-ca-carried off the soup already,” cried the last-mentioned personage, as he arranged his napkin before him, “and--and--and, I fa-fancy, the fish, too.” “Be quiet, Scroope,” called out the fat lady; “do be quiet.” “Yes, but we shall have to p-p-pay all the same,” cried Scroope. “There 's good sense in that, anyway,” broke in Dalton; “will you take a glass of champagne with me, sir? you 'll find it cool, and not bad of its kind.” Mr. Purvis acknowledged the courtesy gracefully, and bowed as he drank. “Take the ortolans to that lady, Fritz,” said Dalton to the waiter; and Mrs. Ricketts smiled her sweetest gratitude. “We are dreadfully late,” sighed she; “but the dear Princess of Stauffenschwillingen passed all the morning with us, and we could n't get away.” “I thought it was the woman about the ro-rope dancing detained you.”