“Verano!” screamed the footman, triumphantly submerging the flute and the twenty guitars.  “Verano!”

“The South American Irish palmist from the Downs!  My love,” said Mr. Sagittarius, in a cracking voice, “we are in it to-night, we are indeed; we are fairly and squarely in it.”

Madame began to bridle and to look as ostentatious as a leviathan.

“And if we are, Jupiter!” she said in a voice that rivalled the footman’s—­“if we are, we are merely in our element.  They needn’t think to come over me!”

“Hush, my love!  Remember that—­”

“Dr. Birdie Soames!” interposed the vibrant bass of the footman.

“The physiognomy lady from the Common!” said Mr. Sagittarius, on the point of breaking down under the emotion of the moment.  “Scot!  Scot!  Great Scot!”

Mrs. Bridgeman was now completely surrounded by a heterogeneous mass of very remarkable-looking people, among whom were peculiarly prominent an enormously broad-shouldered man, with Roman features and his hair cut over his brow in a royal fringe, a small woman with a pointed red nose in bead bracelets and prune-coloured muslin, and an elderly female with short grizzled hair, who wore a college gown and a mortar-board with a scarlet tassel, and who carried in one hand a large skull marked out in squares with red ink.  These were Verano, the Irish palmist from the Downs; Mrs. Eliza Doubleway, the soothsayer from Beck; and Dr. Birdie Soames, the physiognomy lady from the Common.  Immediately around these celebrities were grouped a very pale gentleman in a short jacket, who looked as if he made his money by eating nothing and drinking a great deal, a plethoric female with a mundane face, in which was set a large and delicately distracted grey eye; and a gentleman with a jowl, a pug nose, and a large quantity of brass-coloured hair about as curly as hay, which fell down over a low collar, round which was negligently knotted a huge black tie.  This trio comprised Mr. Bernard Wilkins, the Prophet from the Rise; Madame Charlotte Humm, the crystal-gazer from the Hill; and Professor Elijah Chapman, the nose-reader from the Butts.  No sooner was the news of the arrival of these great and notorious people bruited abroad through the magnificent saloons of Zoological House than Mrs. Bridgeman’s guests began to flock around them from all the four quarters of the mansion, deserting even the neighbourhood of the guitars and the inviting seclusion of the various refreshment-rooms.  From all sides rose the hum of comment and the murmur of speculation.  Pince-nez were adjusted, eyeglasses screwed into eyes, fingers pointed, feet elevated upon uneasy toes.  Pretty girls boldly trod upon the gowns of elderly matrons in the endeavour to draw near to Mrs. Bridgeman and her group of celebrities; youths pushed and shoved; chaperons elbowed, and old gentlemen darted from one place to another in wild endeavours to find an inlet through the press.  And amid this frantic scramble of the curious, the