Minus these charmers, our gathering was pretty much what it had been down in the old school-room at the decorations.

There were the Dasher girls, two young collegians from Cambridge--ex-pupils of the vicar--to entertain Bessie and Seraphine, Lizzie Dangler, Horner with his inseparable eye-glass and faultless toilet, Baby Blake for _his_ entertainment--Miss Pimpernell was a wise caterer--Min, and myself.
Our hostess had so planned that we should all pair off, each lady having her cavalier, as she said, in the good old-fashioned way.

She planned very ably, as we had one of the pleasantest evenings imaginable, without any stiffness or formality or being forced to make a toil of enjoyment, in the customary manner of most fashionable reunions: we were not "fashionable," thank goodness.

But we had "a good time" of it, as young America says, all the same.
What did we do?
Well, then, there were none of those abominable "round games," which, unless they descend to vulgar romping, are the dreariest attempts at conviviality possible to conceive; none of those dreadful and much-to- be-avoided exactions and remissions of "forfeits," that plunge everybody into embarrassing situations, and destroy, instead of creating, sociability; none of those stock--so-called--"drawing-room entertainments;" in fact, which always result in hopeless boredom.

But, we had a little music and part-singing: a little lively, general chit- chat, in which all could join and each take a share: a few anecdotes well told--a complete success, to be brief, in making us all feel perfectly natural and at ease, for we were allowed to do and say exactly what we pleased in moderation.
Each of us was made to feel that his or her absence would have detracted from the happiness of the rest; and _that_ is the true art of treating one's guests--an art which both the vicar and Miss Pimpernell had apparently studied to perfection, although it really proceeded from their natural good-heartedness.
But, amongst our company I had almost forgotten to enumerate the name of Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, one of the nicest of French emigres and a dear friend of the vicar's; one known to most of us, also, for many years.
Perhaps you may chance to remember the noise that the great Barnard extradition case made in the newspapers--and, indeed, all over England too, for that matter--in the year 1859?
You don't?
Why, it nearly led to a war between France and Britain! Did you never hear how the fiercely-moustachioed Gallic colonels swaggered about the Boulogne cafes, loud in their denunciations of perfidious Albion, while smoking their endless cigarettes and sipping their poisonous absinthe; and how, but for the staunch fidelity of the ill- fated Emperor Napoleon--since deserted by his quondam ally--and the jaunty pluck of our then gallant premier, brave "old Pam"-- whose loss we have had ample reason, oftentimes of late, to deplore--there might have been a sudden rupture of that "entente cordiale" between the two nations, which was cemented in the Crimea, and expired but a couple of years ago under the besieged walls of Paris?
Ah! that was a time when the whilom "Cupid's" boast, "Civis Anglicanus sum," was not an empty claim, as it is in these days of poverty-stricken "retrenchments," and senile forfeitures of all that made England great and grand through five hundred years of history! But the Barnard case--you must have heard of that, surely?
It was just about the period when the wonderful volunteer fever commenced to rage with such intense earnestness over here; and when our "valuable auxiliary forces"-- as amateur military critics in the House are so fond of repeating--were first instituted, in the fear of a second invasion of this sacred realm of liberty.