And then the stocks—what marvellous cravats they form! Blue always the favourite colour—blue, with gold sprigs! blue, with a crimson floss-silk flower! blue Joinvilles, with rainbow ends! And, if they are black and long, they are fashioned into quaint conceits: Frills of black satin down the front, or bands of the same fabric looking like an imitation of crimped skate; or studs of jet made like buttons, as if the Gent wore a cheap, black satin shirt, and that was where it fastened. And the white stocks are more fanciful still. They are not very popular in their simple form; for the Gents feel that they cannot help looking like waiters in them; and so a little illegitimate finery is necessary. Hence they have lace ends, like the stamped papers from the top of _bon-bon_ and French plum boxes. And the effect in society is very fine. [Illustration] The Jewellers consult the Gents, and for them manufacture various dashing articles in electro-gold. Some of the ornaments for the cravat are like large white currants, with gilt eels twisting round them; and others like blanket-pins with water on the brain. We have also seen some sporting Gents—of whom we shall hereafter speak—with mosaic gold heads of horses and foxes stuck in their stocks. And they love rings in profusion, which we have seen them at times wear outside their gloves. But this, perhaps, was an advantage, as Gents are accustomed, in general, to wear their hands large and red, with flattened ends to the fingers. [Illustration] It is for the Gents to buy, that the print-sellers put forward those dreary pictures of the _Pets of the Ballet_; consisting chiefly of chubby young persons, in short petticoats and ungraceful attitudes, like nothing ever seen on the stage anywhere; and coloured lithographs of housemaids cleaning steps; and chambermaids with flat candlesticks in their hands; and women with large black dots of eyes and heavy ringlets, trying on shoes. One was very popular a little time ago. It represented a young lady something between a hairdresser’s dummy and a barmaid, with a man’s coat and hat on over her own dress. She was looking through an eye-glass at the top of a whip, and underneath was written “_damme!_”—why, or wherefore, or in what relation to the singular mode of toilet she has adopted, or what the word itself meant in the abstract, we never could make out. But the Gents seemed to know all about it, and bought the picture furiously. By the tokens above mentioned—including always the staring shawl and the _al fresco_ cigar—you may know the Gent when you see him, even if you met him on the top of Mont Blanc—a place, however, where you are not very likely to encounter him. He prefers Windmill Hill. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IV. OF THE GENT AT THE THEATRE.