Every one, in fact, was there. All those who have had greatness thrust
upon them, and the others, those who thrust themselves upon the
great--those, in a word, who reach such as are above them by doing that
which should be beneath them. Lord Mealhead, by the way, was not there.
He never is anywhere where the respectable writer and his high-born
reader are to be found. It is discreet not to enquire where Lord
Mealhead is, especially of Lady Mealhead, who has severed more
completely her connection with the past. His lordship is, perchance, of
a sentimental humor, and loves to wander in those pasteboard groves
where first he met his Tiny--and very natural, too.

There was music and the refreshments. It was, in fact, a reception.
Gaul's most lively sons bowed before Albion's fairest daughters, and
displayed that fund of verve and esprit which they rightly pride
themselves upon possessing, and which, of course, leave mere Englishmen
so far behind in the paths of love and chivalry.

When not thus actively engaged they whispered together in corners and
nudged each other, exchanging muttered comments, in which the word
charmante came conveniently to the fore. Thus, the lightsome son of
republican Gaul in society.

It is, however, high time to explain the reason of our own presence--of
our own reception by France's courteous representative. We are here to
meet Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and, moreover, to confine our attention to
the persons more or less implicated in the present history.

Mrs. Sydney Bamborough was undoubtedly the belle of the evening. She had
only to look in one of the many mirrors to make sure of that fact. And
if she wanted further assurance a hundred men in the room would have