It was at one of the dances I have spoken of that the scene I am about
to describe took place.

Among the pretty girls who attended the ball was one prettier perhaps
than any of her companions; indeed, she was called the belle of Rio
Janeiro. I will not attempt to portray her, but I must own she was far
too bewitching for the peace of heart of her many admirers, and
unhappily she was an unmitigated flirt in every sense of the word.

Now there was a young Brazilian nobleman who had, as he thought, been
making very successful progress towards winning this girl's heart--if
she had a heart. All was progressing smoothly enough till these hapless
English sailors arrived.

Then, perhaps with the object of making her lover jealous (a very common
though dangerous game), Mademoiselle pretended (for I presume it was
pretence) to be immensely smitten with one of them--a handsome young
midshipman whom we will call A.

At the ball where the incident I refer to occurred, she danced once with
him, twice with him, and was about to start with him a third time, when,
to the astonishment of the lookers-on, of whom I formed part, the young
Brazilian rushed into the middle of the room where the couple were
standing, walked close up to them and spat in A.'s face.

Before the aggressor could look round him, he found himself sprawling on
the floor, knocked by the angry Briton into what is commonly called 'a
cocked hat.' Not a word was spoken. A. wiped his face, led his partner
to a seat and came straight to me, putting his arm in mine and leading