“No names at all”; and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, “names won’t do⁠—not known⁠—very good names in their way, but not great ones⁠—capital names for a small party, but won’t make an impression in public assemblies⁠— incog. the thing⁠—gentlemen from London⁠—distinguished foreigners⁠—anything.” The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman and the stranger entered the ballroom.

It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining cardroom, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.