time contrived to throw very uncomfortable looking glances at me and Mary Anne, for she was so named, the whole time of supper.  After a few minutes, however, I totally forgot him, and, indeed, every thing else, in the fascination of my fair companion.  She shared her chair with me, upon which I supported her by my arm passed round the back; we eat our pickled salmon, jelly, blanc mange, cold chicken, ham, and custard; off the same plate, with an occasional squeeze of the finger, as our hands met—­her eyes making sad havoc with me all the while, as I poured my tale of love—­love, lasting, burning, all-consuming—­into her not unwilling ear.

“Ah! now, ye’r not in earnest?”

“Yes, Mary Anne, by all that’s”—­

“Well, there now, don’t swear, and take care—­sure Mark Anthony is looking.”

“Mark Anthony be—­”

“Oh! how passionate you are; I’m sure I never could live easy with you.  There, now, give me some sponge cake, and don’t be squeezing me, or they’ll see you.”

“Yes, to my heart, dearest girl.”

“Och, it’s cheese you’re giving me,” said she, with a grimace that nearly cured my passion.

“A cottage, a hut, with you—­with you,” said I, in a cadence that I defy Macready to rival—­“what is worldly splendour, or the empty glitter of rank.”

I here glanced at my epaulettes, upon which I saw her eyes rivetted.

“Isn’t the ginger beer beautiful,” said she, emptying a glass of champagne.

Still I was not to be roused from my trance, and continued my courtship as warmly as ever.

“I suppose you’ll come home now,” said a gruff voice behind Mary Anne.

I turned and perceived Mark Anthony with a grim look of peculiar import.

“Oh, Mark dear, I’m engaged to dance another set with this gentleman.”

“Ye are, are ye?” replied Mark, eyeing me askance.  “Troth and I think the gentleman would be better if he went off to his flea-bag himself.”

In my then mystified intellect this west country synonyme for a bed a little puzzled me.

“Yes sir, the lady is engaged to me:  have you any thing to say to that?”

“Nothing at present, at all,” said Mark, almost timidly.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” sobbed Mary Anne; “they’re going to fight, and he’ll be killed—­I know he will.”

For which of us this fate was destined, I stopped not to consider, but amid a very sufficient patting upon the back, and thumping between the shoulders, bestowed by members of the company who approved of my proceedings.  The three fiddles, the flute, and bassoon, that formed our band, being by this time sufficiently drunk, played after a fashion of their own, which by one of those strange sympathies of our nature, imparted its influence to our legs, and a country dance was performed in a style of free and easy gesticulation that defies description.  At the end of eighteen couple, tired of my exertions—­and