have got.'

'Ah me! what lace!' exclaimed the Bird, in rapture. 'Duke, look at his
lace. Come here, sit next to me. Let me look at that lace.' She examined
it with great attention, then turned up her beautiful eyes with a
fascinating smile. '_Ah! c'est jolie, n'est-ce pas?_ But you like caps.
I tell you what, you shall see my caps. Spiridion, go, _mon cher_, and
tell Ma'amselle to bring my caps, all my caps, one of each set.'

In due time entered the Swiss, with the caps, all the caps, one of each
set. As she handed them in turn to her mistress, the Bird chirped a
panegyric upon each.

'That is pretty, is it not, and this also? but this is my favourite.
What do you think of this border? _c'est belle cette garniture? et
ce jabot, c'est tres-seduisant, n'est-ce pas? Mais voici_, the cap of
Princess Lichtenstein. _C'est superb, c'est mon favori_. But I also love
very much this of the Duchess de Berri. She gave me the pattern herself.
And, after, all, this _cornette a petite sante_ of Lady Blaze is a dear
little thing; then, again, this _coiffe a dentelle_ of Lady Macaroni is
quite a pet.'

'Pass them down,' said Lord Squib; 'we want to look at them.'
Accordingly they were passed down. Lord Squib put one on.

'Do I look superb, sentimental, or only pretty?' asked his Lordship. The
example was contagious, and most of the caps were appropriated. No one
laughed more than their mistress, who, not having the slightest idea of
the value of money, would have given them all away on the spot; not from
any good-natured feeling, but from the remembrance that tomorrow she
might amuse half an hour in buying others.

Whilst some were stealing, and she remonstrating, the Duke clapped
his hands like a caliph. The curtain at the end of the apartment was
immediately withdrawn, and the ball-room stood revealed.

It was the same size as the banqueting-hall. Its walls exhibited a long
perspective of golden pilasters, the frequent piers of which were of
looking-glass, save where, occasionally, a picture had been, as it were,
inlaid in its rich frame. Here was the Titian Venus of the Tribune,
deliciously copied by a French artist: there, the Roman Fornarina, with
her delicate grace, beamed like the personification of Raf-faelle's
genius. Here, Zuleikha, living in the light and shade of that magician
Guercino, in vain summoned the passions of the blooming Hebrew: and
there, Cleopatra, preparing for her last immortal hour, proved by what
w