d the quadrille perforce, all giggles, not without emulation, for
she likewise had the passion for the dance. Whereby it befell that the
pair footed in a way to gather observant spectators; and if it had not
been that the man from whom the maid was willy-nilly snatched, conceived
resentment, things might have passed comfortably; for Kit's quips and
cuts and high capers, and the Sunday gravity of the barge face while the
legs were at their impish trickery, double motion to the music, won the
crowd to cheer. They conjectured him to be a British sailor. But the
destituted man said, sailor or no sailor,--bos'en be hanged! he should
pay for his whistle.

Honourably at the close of the quadrille, Kit brought her back; none the
worse for it, he boldly affirmed, and he thanked the man for the short
loan of her.--The man had an itch to strike. Choosing rather to be struck
first, he vented nasty remarks. My lord spoke to Kit and moved on. At the
moment of the step, Rose Mackrell uttered something, a waggery of some
sort, heard to be forgotten, but of such instantaneous effect, that the
prompt and immoderate laugh succeeding it might reasonably be taken for a
fling of scorn at himself, by an injured man. They were a party; he
therefore proceeded to make one, appealing to English sentiment and right
feeling. The blameless and repentant maid plucked at his coat to keep him
from dogging the heels of the gentlemen. Fun was promised; consequently
the crowd waxed.

'My lord,' had been let fall by Kit Ines. Conjoined to 'Mackrell,' it
rang finely, and a trumpeting of 'Lord Mackrell' resounded. Lord Mackrell
was asked for 'more capers and not so much sauce.' Various fish took part
in his title of nobility. The wag Mackrell continuing to be discreetly
silent, and Kit Ines acting as a pacific rearguard, the crowd fell in
love with their display of English humour, disposed to the surly
satisfaction of a big street dog that has been appeased by a smaller
one's total cessation of growls.

All might have gone well but for the sudden appearance of two figures of
young women on the scene. They fronted the advance of the procession.
They wanted to have a word with Lord Mackrell. Not a bit of it--he won't
listen, turns away; and one of the pair slips round him. It's regular
imploring: 'my lord! my lord!'

O you naughty Surrey melodram villain of a Lord Mackrell! Listen to the
young woman, you Mackrell, or you'll get Billingsgate! Here's Mr.
Jig