The proposition was carried unanimously, and we landed, having first tied the boat to a willow.  We found the island laid out very prettily; intersected by numbers of little paths, with rustic seats here and there among the trees, and variegated lamps gleaming out amid the grass, like parti-colored glow-worms.  Following one of these paths, we came presently to an open space, brilliantly lighted and crowded by holiday-makers.  Here were refreshment stalls, and Russian swings, and queer-looking merry-go-rounds, where each individual sat on a wooden horse and went gravely round and round with a stick in his hand, trying to knock off a ring from the top of a pole in the middle.  Here, also, was a band in a gaily decorated orchestra; a circular area roped off for dancers; a mysterious tent with a fortune-teller inside; a lottery-stall resplendent with vases and knick-knacks, which nobody was ever known to win; in short, all kinds of attractions, stale enough, no doubt, to my companions, but sufficiently novel and amusing to me.

We strolled about for some time among the stalls and promenaders and amused ourselves by criticising the company, which was composed almost entirely of peasants, soldiers, artisans in blue blouses and humble tradespeople.  The younger women were mostly handsome, with high Norman caps, white kerchiefs and massive gold ear-rings.  Many, in addition to the ear-rings, wore a gold cross suspended round the neck by a piece of black velvet; and some had a brooch to match.  Here, sitting round a table under a tree, we came upon a family group, consisting of a little plump, bald-headed bourgeois with his wife and two children—­the wife stout and rosy; the children noisy and authoritative.  They were discussing a dish of poached eggs and a bottle of red wine, to the music of a polka close by.

“I should like to dance,” said the little girl, drumming with her feet against the leg of the table, and eating an egg with her fingers.  “I may dance presently with Phillippe, may I not, papa?”

“I won’t dance,” said Phillippe sulkily.  “I want some oysters.”

“Oysters, mon enfant!  I have told you twice already that no one eats oysters in July,” observed his mother.

“I don’t care for that,” said Phillippe.  “It’s my fete day, and Uncle Jacques said I was to have whatever I fancied; I want some oysters.”

“Your Uncle Jacques did not know what an unreasonable boy you are,” replied the father angrily.  “If you say another word about oysters, you shall not ride in the manege to-night.”

Phillippe thrust his fists into his eyes and began to roar—­so we walked away.

In an arbor, a little further on, we saw two young people whispering earnestly, and conscious of no eyes but each other’s.

“A pair of lovers,” said Sullivan.

“And a pair that seldom get the chance of meeting, if we may judge by their untasted omelette,” replied Dalrymple.  “But where’s the bridal party?”