So it may be that the crippled crossing-sweeper outside Winsleigh House is a very great deal happier than the master of that stately mansion. He has a new broom,--and Master Ernest Winsleigh has given him two oranges, and a rather bulky stick of sugar candy. He is a protégé of Ernest's--that bright handsome boy considers it a "jolly shame"--to have only one leg,--and has said so with much emphasis,--and though the little sweeper himself has never regarded his affliction quite in that light, he is exceedingly grateful for the young gentleman's patronage and sympathy thus frankly expressed. And on this particular night of the grand reception he stands, leaning on his broom and munching his candy, a delighted spectator of the scene in Park Lane,--the splendid equipages, the prancing horses, the glittering liveries, the excited cabmen, the magnificent toilettes of the ladies, the solemn and resigned deportment of the gentlemen,--and he envies none of them--not he! Why should he? His oranges are in his pocket--untouched as yet--and it is doubtful whether the crowding guests at the Winsleigh supper-table shall find anything there to yield them such entire enjoyment as he will presently take in his humble yet refreshing desert. And he is pleased as a child at a pantomime--the Winsleigh "at home" is a show that amuses him,--and he makes sundry remarks on "'im" and "'er" in a meditative sotto voce. He peeps up Awning Avenue heedless of the severe eye of the policeman on guard,--he sweeps the edge of the crimson felt foot-cloth tenderly with his broom,--and if he has a desire ungratified, it is that he might take a peep just for a minute inside the front door, and see how "they're all a'goin' it!"
And how are they a'goin' it! Well, not very hilariously, if one may judge by the aspect of the gentlemen in the hall and on the stairs,--gentlemen of serious demeanor, who are leaning, as though exhausted, against the banisters, with a universal air of profound weariness and dissatisfaction. Some of these are young fledglings of manhood,--callow birds who, though by no means innocent,--are more or less inexperienced,--and who have fluttered hither to the snare of Lady Winsleigh's "at home," half expecting to be allowed to make love to their hostess, and so have something to boast of afterwards,--others are of the middle-aged complacent type, who, though infinitely bored, have condescended to "look in" for ten minutes or so, to see if there are any pretty women worth the honor of their criticism--others again (and these are the most unfortunate) are the "nobodies"--or husbands, fathers, and brothers of "beauties," whom they have dutifully escorted to the scene of triumph, in which they, unlucky wights! are certainly not expected to share. A little desultory conversation goes on among these stair-loungers,--conversation mingled with much dreary yawning,--a trained opera-singer is shaking forth chromatic roulades and trills in the great drawing-room above,--there is an incessant stream of people coming and going,--there is the rustle of silk and satin,--perfume, shaken out of lace kerchiefs, and bouquets oppresses the warm air,--the heat is excessive,--and there is a never-ending monotonous hum of voices, only broken at rare intervals by the "society laugh"--that unmeaning giggle on the part of the women,--that strained "ha, ha, ha!" on the part of the men, which is but the faint ghostly echo of the farewell voice of true mirth.