“Madame la Contesse Benvolio and Monsieur Stoops!” cried the lacquey de place as they reached the door of the low ante-room, where the Countess Benvolio deposited her shawl, and took a final look at herself in the glass.  She again took the Yorkshireman’s arm and entered the round ballroom, which, though low and out of all proportion, had an exceedingly gay appearance, from the judicious arrangement of the numerous lights, reflected in costly mirrors, and the simple elegance of the crimson drapery, festooned with flowers and evergreens against the gilded walls.  Indeed, the hotel had been the residence of an ambassador before the first revolution, and this entresol had formed the private apartment of his Excellency.  The door immediately opposite the one by which they entered, led into the Countess de Jackson’s bedroom, which was also lighted up, with the best furniture exposed and her toilette-table set out with numberless scent bottles, vases, trinkets, and nick-nacks, while the salle a manger was converted into a card-room.  Having been presented in due form to the hostess, the Yorkshireman and his new friend stood surveying the gay crowd of beautiful and well-dressed women, large frilled and well-whiskered men, all chatting, and bowing, and dancing, when a half-suppressed titter that ran through the room attracted their attention, and turning round, Mr. Jorrocks was seen poking his way through the crowd with a number of straws sticking to his feet, giving him the appearance of a feathered Mercury.  The fact was, that Agamemnon had cleaned his shoes with the liquid varnish (french polish), and forgetting to dry it properly, the carrying away half the straw from the bottom of the fiacre was the consequence, and Mr. Jorrocks having paid the Jehu rather short, the latter had not cared to tell him about it.

The straws were, however, soon removed without interruption to the gaiety of the evening.  Mr. Stubbs, of course, took an early opportunity of waltzing with the Countess Benvolio, who, as all French women are, was an admirable dancer, and Jorrocks stood by fingering and curling his mustachios, admiring her movements but apparently rather jealous of the Yorkshireman.  “I wish,” said he after the dance was over, “that you would sit down at ecarte and let us try to win some of these mouncheers’ tin, for I’m nearly cleaned out.  Let us go into the cardroom, but first let us see if we can find anything in the way of nourishment, for I begin to be hungry.  Garsoon,” said he catching a servant with a trayful of eau sucree glasses, “avez-vous kick-shaws to eat?” putting his finger in his mouth—­“ge wouderay some refreshment.”  “Oh, oui,” replied the garcon taking him to an open window overlooking the courtyard, and extending his hand in the air, “voila, monsieur, de tres bon rafraichissement.”