'No names at all;' and then he whispered Mr. Tupman,
'names won't do--not known--very good names in their way,
but not great ones--capital names for a small party, but won't
make an impression in public assemblies--incog. the thing--
gentlemen from London--distinguished foreigners--anything.'
The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the
stranger entered the ballroom.

It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax
candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined
in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically
got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were
made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair of old ladies,
and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing
whist therein.

The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and
Mr. Tupman and his companion stationed themselves in a corner
to observe the company.

'Charming women,' said Mr. Tupman.

'Wait a minute,' said the stranger, 'fun presently--nobs not
come yet--queer place--dockyard people of upper rank don't
know dockyard people of lower rank--dockyard people of lower
rank don't know small gentry--small gentry don't know
tradespeople--commissioner don't know anybody.'

'Who's that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a