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"I need not ask how you are enjoying the ball," remarked Trevalyon,
"your eyes tell me."
"And they say true; how could it be otherwise Sir Knight? with music
that thrills one, and a light foot treading a measure to the sweet
notes," answered Vaura. "Is not this a charming room, Miss Vernon?
invisible music, birds and flowers; the Parisian is born for this kind
of thing."
"It is just a poem, Capt. Trevalyon."
"And Bob Fudge in the flesh, brings us back to reality," said Mrs.
Wingfield; and following the direction of her eyes, they saw a very
young man devouring with admiring glances, the delicacies around him.
"I am quite sure," laughed Vaura, "he will go through the bill of fare
just as Moore's Bob, of one _pate_ of larks, just to tune up the
throat; one's small limbs of chickens, done _en papillote_, one's
erudite cutlets dressed all ways but plain, &c. Oh, dear, he fatigues
one," she added gaily; "yes, an ice, Sir Tilton."
"Depend upon it," said Trevalyon laughing, "Dick will receive a letter
from Bob, that, 'there's nothing like feeding.


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