There was a fine cold collation, to which the friends of the
Ladies-Patronesses were admitted; after which, my ladies and their beaux
went strolling through the walks; Tagrag and the Count having each an
arm of Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm apiece to Madame and Jemimarann.
Whilst they were walking, whom should they light upon but poor Orlando
Crump, my successor in the perfumery and hair-cutting.
"Orlando!" says Jemimarann, blushing as red as a label, and holding out
her hand.
"Jemimar!" says he, holding out his, and turning as white as pomatum.
"SIR!" says Jemmy, as stately as a duchess.
"What! madam," says poor Crump, "don't you remember your shopboy?"
"Dearest mamma, don't you recollect Orlando?" whimpers Jemimarann, whose
hand he had got hold of.
"Miss Tuggeridge Coxe," says Jemmy, "I'm surprised of you. Remember,
sir, that our position is altered, and oblige me by no more
familiarity."
"Insolent fellow!" says the Baron, "vat is dis canaille?"
"Canal yourself, Mounseer," says Orlando, now grown quite furious: he
broke away, quite indignant, and was soon lost in the crowd. Jemimarann,
as soon as he was gone, began to look very pale and ill; and her mamma,
therefore, took her to a tent, where she left her along with Madame
Flicflac and the Baron; going off herself with the other gentlemen, in
order to join us.
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