r."

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.

"Now, reelly, Mr. Smith, you should deence; a feeshionable young man,
like you--I don't know what the young leedies will say to you." And the
fair seducer laughed bewitchingly.

"You are very good, Mrs. Dollimore," replied Mr. Smith, with a blush and
a low bow; "but Mr. Ritson tells me it is not the thing to dance."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Dollimore, "but then he's seech a naughty, conceited
creature--don't follow his example, Meester Smith;" and again the good
lady laughed immoderately.

"Nay, Mrs. Dollimore," said Mr. Ritson, passing his hand through his
abominable hair, "you are too severe; but tell me, Mrs. Dollimore, is
the Countess St. A--coming here?"

"Now, reelly, Mr. Ritson, you, who are the pink of feeshion, ought to
know better than I can; but I hear so."

"Do you know the countess?" said Mr. Smith, in respectful surprise, to
Ritson.

"Oh, very well," replied the Coryphaeus of Cheltenham, swinging his
Woodstock glove to and fro; "I have often danced with her at Almack's."

"Is she a good deencer?" asked Mrs. Dollimore.

"O, capital," responded Mr. Ritson; "she's such a nice genteel little
figure."

Sir Ralph, apparently tired of this "feeshionable" conversation,
swaggered away.

"Pray," said Mrs. Dollimore, "who is that geentleman?"

"Sir Ralph Rumford," replied Smith, eagerly, "a particular friend of
mine at Cambridge."

"I wonder if he's going to make a long steey?" said Mrs. Dollimore.

"Yes, I believe so," replied Mr. Smith, "if we