That lady herself, in a pronounced bloomer, represented the
little old woman of doubtful identity, and her husband the pedlar,
whose 'name it was Stout'; while not far off the Spanish lady, in
garments gay, as rich as may be, wooed her big Englishman in a dress
that rivalled Sir Nicolas Blount's.
There was a pretty character quadrille, and then a general melee, in
which Jock danced successively with Cinderella and the fair
equestrian of Banbury Cross, and lost sight of Fatima, till, just as
he was considering of offering himself to little Bo-peep, he saw her
looking a good deal bored by the Spanish lady's Englishman.
Tossing her head till the coins danced on her forehead, she
exclaimed, "Oh, there's my cousin; I must speak to him!" and sprang
to her old companion as if for protection. "Take me to a cool
corner, Jock, " she said, "I am suffocating."
"No wonder, after waltzing with a mountain."
"He can no more waltz than fly! And he thinks himself irresistible!
He says his dress is from a portrait of his ancestor, Sir Somebody;
and Flora declares his only ancestor must have been the Fat Boy! And
he thought I was a Turkish Sultana! Wasn't it ridiculous! You know
he never says anything but 'Exactly.'"
"Did he intone it so as to convey all this?"
"He is a little inspired by his ruff and diamonds.
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