"Why," replied Mr. Smith, who was a good-natured looking person, with a
blue coat and brass buttons, a gold pin in his neckcloth, and
kneebreeches, "why, they dance at Almack's, don't they?"

"No, 'pon honour," murmured Mr. Ritson; "no, they just walk a quadrille
or spin a waltz, as my friend, Lord Bobadob, calls it, nothing more--no,
hang dancing, 'tis so vulgar."

A stout, red-faced man, about thirty, with wet auburn hair, a
marvellously fine waistcoat, and a badly-washed frill, now joined Messrs.
Ritson and Smith.

"Ah, Sir Ralph," cried Smith, "how d'ye do? been hunting all day, I
suppose?"

"Yes, old cock," replied Sir Ralph; "been after the brush till I am quite
done up; such a glorious run. By G--, you should have seen my grey mare,
Smith; by G--, she's a glorious fencer."

"You don't hunt, do you, Ritson?" interrogated Mr. Smith.

"Yes, I do," replied Mr. Ritson, affectedly playing with his Woodstock
glove; "yes, but I only hunt in Leicestershire with my friend, Lord
Bobadob; 'tis not the thing to hunt any where else, 'tis so vulgar."

Sir Ralph stared at the speaker with mute contempt: while Mr. Smith, like
the ass between the hay, stood balancing betwixt the opposing merits of
the baronet and the beau. Meanwhile, a smiling, nodding, affected female
thing, in ringlets and flowers, flirted up to the trio.