d so with much emphasis,--and though the
little sweeper himself has never regarded his affliction quite in that
light, he is exceedingly grateful for the young gentleman's patronage
and sympathy thus frankly expressed. And on this particular night of the
grand reception he stands, leaning on his broom and munching his candy,
a delighted spectator of the scene in Park Lane,--the splendid
equipages, the prancing horses, the glittering liveries, the excited
cabmen, the magnificent toilettes of the ladies, the solemn and resigned
deportment of the gentlemen,--and he envies none of them--not he! Why
should he? His oranges are in his pocket--untouched as yet--and it is
doubtful whether the crowding guests at the Winsleigh supper-table shall
find anything there to yield them such entire enjoyment as he will
presently take in his humble yet refreshing desert. And he is pleased as
a child at a pantomime--the Winsleigh "at home" is a show that amuses
him,--and he makes sundry remarks on "'im" and "'er" in a meditative
_sotto voce_. He peeps up Awning Avenue heedless of the severe eye of
the policeman on guard,--he sweeps the edge of the crimson felt
foot-cloth tenderly with his broom,--and if he has a desire ungratified,
it is that he might take a peep just for a minute inside the front door,
and see how "they're all a'goin' it!"

And how _are_ they a'goin' it! Well, not very hilariously, if one may
judge by the aspect of the gentlemen in the hall and on the
stairs,--gentlemen of serious demeanor, who are leaning, as though
exhausted, against the banisters, with a universal air of profound
weariness and dissatisfaction. Some of these are young fledglings of
manhood,--callow birds who, though by no means innocent,--are more or
less inexperienced,--and who have fluttered hither to the snare of Lady
Winsleigh's "at home," half expecting to be allowed to make love to
their hostess, and so have something to boast of afterwards,--others are
of the middle-aged complacent type, who, though infinitely bored, have
condescended to "look in" for ten minutes or so, to see if there are any
pretty women worth the honor of their criticism--others again (and these
are the most unfortunate) are the "nobodies"--or husbands, fathers, and
brothers of "beauties," whom they have dutifully escorted to the scene
of triumph, in which they, unlucky wights! are certainly not expected to
share. A little desultory conversation goes on among these
stair-lounge