They are in greater force at _bals masqués_, in and out of costume. Many Gents conceive that going in a scarlet coat and top-boots, and now and then shouting “Yoicks!” constitutes the fast thing: hence there is always one of this kind. Others adopt large noses, and false mustaches, which they think is “doing it—rather!” But you never see them in characteristic or original costumes; nor, lacking them, do they even adhere to a recognised evening toilet. They prefer their beloved railway trowsers, and flaring stocks and shawls, and centre all their notions of full-dress in a paletot. M. Jullien is gradually changing all this: we trust he will not stop until he places the masked ball—“bal marsk” the Gent calls it—on a level with those of Paris. But then the complimentary admissions must be weeded; and the authorities must learn that it is not at all necessary to engage a few wretched supernumeraries from the theatres, in dingy wardrobe costumes, to support the festivity of the evening. All low people, including Gents, get drunk; and all drunken people are miserable nuisances. _Note._—If ever you see two Gents dancing together at a _bal masqué_, you are at liberty to kick and insult them, with every opprobrious epithet. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XI. OF THE GENT AT THE SEA-SIDE. THERE is a period in the year of London existence, when that portion of it termed the Season, _par excellence_, comes to an end with every body, whatever their station; for very few there are who do not, somehow or other, contrive to get out of town, when the great rush from home—that flight of the soul of the departed Season—is at its height. Every body who has not already gone, is going; nobody will own to staying in town, even if compelled to do so. Houses are shut up, blinds newspapered, and furniture tied up in bags: in fact, to make a wretched joke, whilst the family is on the Rhine, its lamps and ottomans are all in Holland. There are no more carriages whirling about the west-end streets: no more thundering knocks echoing all day, and night, too, for the matter of that, in the squares. You write letters, and get no answers: you make calls, and find nobody at home, but a servant on board wages, who runs out into the area to look at you before she answers the door, in great astonishment. You think it almost disreputable to be seen about, so you follow the rest, and go away. This feeling extends throughout all classes of society: and going down lower and lower, at last reaches the Gent, who copies the gentleman, but sees, as usual, every thing through a wrong medium. In fact, his reflection is that of a spoon, in more senses than one: making the most outrageous images of the original, distorting all the features, but still preserving a strange sort of identity.