“They are on the right side, Mr. Tyers?” demanded Mr. Storer.

“Oh, to be sure, sir.  Your man was most particular to stipulate the pink and blue flowered brocades, next the Prince of Wales’s.”

“But you must have the band stop that piece, Mr. Tyers,” cried Lady Sarah.  “I declare, it is too much for my nerves.  Let them play Dibbin’s Ephesian Matron.”

“As your Ladyship wishes,” responded the obliging Mr. Tyers, and sent off an uniformed warder to the band-master.

As he led us into the Rotunda, my Lady Dolly, being in one of her whimsical humours, began to recite in the manner of the guide-book, to the vast diversion of our party and the honest citizens gaping at us.

“This, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” says the minx, “is that marvellous Rotunda commonly known as the ‘umbrella,’ where the music plays on wet nights, and where we have our masquerades and ridottos.  Their Royal Highnesses are very commonly seen here on such occasions.  As you see, it is decorated with mirrors and scenes and busts, and with gilded festoons.  That picture was painted by the famous Hogarth.  The organ in the orchestra cost—­you must supply the figure, Mr. Tyers,—­and the ceiling is at least two hundred feet high.  Gentlemen from the colonies and the country take notice.”

By this time we were surrounded.  Mr. Marmaduke was scandalized and crushed, but Mr. Tyers, used to the vagaries of his fashionable patrons, was wholly convulsed.

“Faith, Miss Manners, and you would consent to do this two nights more, we should have to open another gate,” he declared.  Followed by the mob, which it seems was part of the excitement, he led us out of the building into the Grand Walk; and offered to turn on the waterfall and mill, which (so Lady Sarah explained to me) the farmers and merchants fell down and worshipped every night at nine, to the tinkling of bells.  She told Mr. Tyers there was diversion enough without “tin cascades.”  When we got to the Grand Cross Walk he pointed out the black “Wilderness” of tall elms and cedars looming ahead of us.  And—­so we came to the South Walk, with its three triumphal arches framing a noble view of architecture at the far end.  Our gentlemen sauntered ahead, with their spy-glasses, staring the citizens’ pretty daughters out of countenance, and making cynical remarks.

“Why, egad!” I heard Sir Charles say, “the wig-makers have no cause to petition his Majesty for work.  I’ll be sworn the false hair this good staymaker has on cost a guinea.”

A remark which caused the staymaker (if such he was) such huge discomfort that he made off with his wife in the opposite direction, to the time of jeers and cock-crows from the bevy of Vauxhall bucks walking abreast.

“You must show us the famous ‘dark walks,’ Mr. Tyers,” says Dorothy.

“Surely you will not care to see those, Miss Manners.”

“O lud, of course you must,” chimed in the Miss Stanleys; “there is no spice in these flaps and flies.”