public was now engaged in the performance of quadrilles. Never, surely,
were people so industrious in the pursuit of pleasure! They poussetted,
bowed, curtsied, joined hands, and threaded the mysteries of every
figure, as if their very lives depended on their agility.

"Look at Jean Thomas," said a young girl to her still younger companion.
"He dances like an angel!"

The one thus called upon to admire, looked at Jean Thomas, and sighed.

"He never asks me, by any chance," said she, sadly, "although his mother
and mine are good neighbors. I suppose I don't dance well enough--or
dress well enough," she added, glancing at her friend's gay shawl and
coquettish cap.

"He has danced with me twice this evening," said the first speaker
triumphantly; "and he danced with me twice last Sunday at the Jardin
d'Armide. Elise says...."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I heard no more. It was a passing
glimpse behind the curtain--a peep at one of the many dramas of real
life that are being played for ever around us. Here were all the
elements of romance--love, admiration, vanity, envy. Here was a hero in
humble life--a lady-killer in his own little sphere. He dances with one,
neglects another, and multiplies his conquests with all the
heartlessness of a gentleman.

I wandered round the platform once or twice, scrutinizing the dancers,
but without success. There was no sign of Sullivan, or of his partner,
or of his partner's mother, the _bourgeoise_ with the green fan. I then