But finding Mr. B. chose to have me go, if, as he was pleased to say, I had no objection, “I said, I will have none, I can have none, when you tell me it is your choice; and so send for the habits you like, and that you would have me appear in, and I will cheerfully attend you.”

The habit Mr. B. pitched upon was that of a Spanish Don, and it well befitted the majesty of his person and air; and Miss Darnford chose that of a young Widow; and Mr. B. recommended that of a Quaker for me.  We all admired one another in our dresses; and Mr. B. promising to have me always in his eye, we went thither.

But I never desire to be present at another.  Mr. B. was singled out by a bold Nun, who talked Italian to him with such free airs, that I did not much like it, though I knew not what she said; for I thought the dear gentleman no more kept to his Spanish gravity, than she to the requisites of the habit she wore:  when I had imagined that all that was tolerable in a masquerade, was the acting up to the character each person assumed:  and this gave me no objection to the Quaker’s dress; for I thought I was prim enough for that naturally.

I said softly, “Dear Miss Darnford” (for Mr. B. and the Nun were out of sight in a moment), “what is become of that Nun?”—­“Rather,” whispered she, “what is become of the Spaniard?”

A Cardinal attacked me instantly in French; but I answered in English, not knowing what he said, “Quakers are not fit company for Red-hats.”

“They are,” said he, in the same language; “for a Quaker and a Jesuit is the same thing.”

Miss Darnford was addressed by the name of the Sprightly Widow:  another asked, how long she intended to wear those weeds?  And a footman, in a rich livery, answered for her eyes, through her mask, that it would not be a month.

But I was startled when a Presbyterian Parson came up, and bid me look after my Musidorus—­So that I doubted not by this, it must be one who knew my name to be Pamela; and I soon thought of one of my lawyers, whose characters I gave before.

Indeed, he needed not to bid me; for I was sorry, on more accounts than that of my timorousness, to have lost sight of him.  “Out upon these nasty masquerades!” thought I; “I can’t abide them already!”

An egregious beauish appearance came up to Miss, and said, “You hang out a very pretty sign, Widow.”

“Not,” replied she, “to invite such fops as you to my shop.”

“Any customer would be welcome,” returned he, “in my opinion.  I whisper this as a secret.”

“And I whisper another,” said she, but not whisperingly, “that no place warrants ill manners.”

“Are you angry, Widow?”

She affected a laugh:  “No, indeed, it i’n’t worth while.”

He turned to me—­and I was afraid of some such hit as he gave me.  “I hope, friend, thou art prepared with a father for the light within thee?”