Here were parties supping substantially, dancers drinking orgeat and lemonade, and little knots of tradesmen and mechanics sipping beer ridiculously out of wine-glasses to an accompaniment of cakes and sweet-biscuits.

Still I could see no trace of Mr.Frank Sullivan.
At length I gave up the search in despair, and on my way back encountered Master Philippe leaning against a tree, and looking exceedingly helpless and unwell.
"You ate too many eggs, Philippe," said his mother.

"I told you so at the time." "It--it wasn't the eggs," faltered the wretched Philippe.

"It was the Russian swing." "And serve you rightly, too," said his father angrily.

"I wish with all my heart that you had had your favorite oysters as well!" When I came back to the arbor, I found the little party immensely happy, and a fresh bowl of punch just placed upon the table.