to a whisper, and I heard no more. It was a passing
glimpse behind the curtain--a peep at one of the many dramas of real
life that are being played for ever around us. Here were all the
elements of romance--love, admiration, vanity, envy. Here was a hero in
humble life--a lady-killer in his own little sphere. He dances with one,
neglects another, and multiplies his conquests with all the
heartlessness of a gentleman.

I wandered round the platform once or twice, scrutinizing the dancers,
but without success. There was no sign of Sullivan, or of his partner,
or of his partner's mother, the _bourgeoise_ with the green fan. I then
went to the grotto of the fortune-teller, but it was full of noisy
rustics; and thence to the lottery hall, where there were plenty of
players, but not those of whom I was in search.

"Wheel of fortune, Messieurs et Mesdames," said the young lady behind
the counter. "Only fifty centimes each. All prizes, and no blanks--try
your fortune, _monsieur le capitaine!_ Put it once, _monsieur le
capitaine_; once for yourself, and once for madame. Only fifty centimes
each, and the certainty of winning!"

_Monsieur le capitaine_ was a great, rawboned corporal, with a pretty
little maid-servant on his arm. The flattery was not very delicate; but
it succeeded. He threw down a franc. The wheel flew round, the papers
were drawn, and the corporal won a needle-case, and the maid-servant a
cigar-holder. In the midst of the laugh to which this distribution gave
rise, I walked away in the direction of the refreshment stalls. Here
were parties supping substantially, dancers drinking orgeat and
lemonade, and little knots of tradesmen and mechanics sipping beer
ridiculously out of wine-glasses to an accompaniment of cakes and
sweet-biscuits. Still I could see no trace of Mr. Frank Sullivan.

At length I gave up the search in despair, and on my way back
encountered Master Philippe leaning against a tree, and looking
exceedingly helpless and unwell.

"You ate too many eggs, Philippe," said his mother. "I told you so at
the time."

"It--it wasn't the eggs," faltered the wretched Philippe. "It was the
Russian swing."

"And serve you rightly, too," said his father angrily. "I wish with all
my heart that you had had your favorite oysters as well!"

When I came back to the arbor, I found the little party immensely happy,
and a fresh bowl of punch just placed upon the table. Andre was sitting
next to Suzette, as prou