not been that the man from whom the maid was willy-nilly
snatched, conceived resentment, things might have passed comfortably;
for Kit's quips and cuts and high capers, and the Sunday gravity of the
barge face while the legs were at their impish trickery, double motion
to the music, won the crowd to cheer. They conjectured him to be
a British sailor. But the destituted man said, sailor or no
sailor,--bos'en be hanged! he should pay for his whistle.

Honourably at the close of the quadrille, Kit brought her back; none the
worse for it, he boldly affirmed, and he thanked the man for the short
loan of her.--The man had an itch to strike. Choosing rather to be
struck first, he vented nasty remarks. My lord spoke to Kit and moved
on. At the moment of the step, Rose Mackrell uttered something, a
waggery of some sort, heard to be forgotten, but of such instantaneous
effect, that the prompt and immoderate laugh succeeding it might
reasonably be taken for a fling of scorn at himself, by an injured man.
They were a party; he therefore proceeded to make one, appealing to
English sentiment and right feeling. The blameless and repentant maid
plucked at his coat to keep him from dogging the heels of the gentlemen.
Fun was promised; consequently the crowd waxed.

'My lord,' had been let fall by Kit Ines. Conjoined to 'Mackrell,'
it rang finely, and a trumpeting of 'Lord Mackrell' resounded. Lord
Mackrell was asked for 'more capers and not so much sauce.' Various fish
took part in his title of nobility. The wag Mackrell continuing to be
discreetly silent, and Kit Ines acting as a pacific rearguard, the crowd
fell in love with their display of English humour, disposed to the surly
satisfaction of a big street dog that has been appeased by a smaller
one's total cessation of growls.

All might have gone well but for the sudden appearance of two figures
of young women on the scene. They fronted the advance of the procession.
They wanted to have a word with Lord Mackrell. Not a bit of it--he won't
listen, turns away; and one of the pair slips round him. It's regular
imploring: 'my lord! my lord!'

O you naughty Surrey melodram villain of a Lord Mackrell! Listen to
the young woman, you Mackrell, or you'll get Billingsgate! Here's Mr.
Jig-and-Reel behind here, says she's done him! By Gosh! What's up now?

One of the young ladies of the party ahead had rushed up to the young
woman dodging to stand in Lord Mackrell's way. The crowd pressed