Mr. Samuel Erin was not indeed a very good cicerone to such a spot, for folks of their age; though he would have been invaluable to some distinguished foreigner with a thirst for information. He reminded them (or rather informed them, for they knew very little about it) how for more than a century the place had been the resort of all the wit and rank and gallantry of the town; how Addison had taken Sir Roger de Coverley there, and Goldsmith the Chinese philosopher, and Swift had gone in person to hear the nightingale; and how much more attractive it was than its rival Ranelagh, of which, nevertheless, as Walpole humorously writes, Lord Chesterfield was so fond that he ordered all his letters to be directed thither. It was with difficulty the old gentleman was persuaded not to take them away from the radiant scene to a neighbouring street to see the lodgings where the poet Philips had breathed his last; and, by way of reprisal for their preference for such gauds and tinsel, he quoted to them (after Dr. Johnson) Xerxes’ remark about his army, that it was sad to think that of all that brilliant crowd not one would be alive a hundred years hence. The Scriptures themselves admit that there is a time to laugh and a time to play, and these literary reminiscences, and much more these didactic reflections, were felt by the young people to be a good deal out of place. If Mr. Erin could have been induced to visit the lodgings of Mr. Philips by himself, or to meditate on the Future alone, and in the Maze, then indeed they would have applauded him, but as it was, his company was a trifle triste. [Illustration: VAUXHALL GARDENS.] They were presently relieved from it, however, in a wholly unexpected manner. They had explored the walks, promenaded the ‘area,’ and listened to the band to their hearts’ content, and had just sat down in one of the arbours to a modest supper, when who should pass by, with his hat on one side and an air of studied indifference to the commonplace allurements around him, but Mr. Reginald Talbot. His few weeks’ residence in London had effected a revolution in him, which nevertheless could scarcely be called a reform: from an inhabitant of Connemara, or some other out-of-the-way spot, he had become a citizen of the world; but the dissipations of the town had not improved his appearance. His face, though still full, had lost its colour, and he had a lack-lustre look which so ably seconded his attempts at languor that it almost rendered him idiotic. William Henry drew involuntarily back in the box to avoid recognition, but Mr. Talbot’s eye, roving everywhere, though with a somewhat fish-like expression, in search of female beauty, had already been attracted by Margaret’s pretty face. He did not quite recognise it, probably owing to the doubtful aid he derived from his spy-glass, but it was evident that he was struggling with a reminiscence.