words were spoken instinctively, but Vanna
drew herself up with instant compunction. "You have so many other
friends, Jean, and I shall fall out for the festivities only. In all
other respects we shall be as much together as before. Perhaps in time
to come I may be festive once more, but for the moment I'm knocked out
of time, and must hide my head like the ostrich. I made myself go to
the ball last night, but it was not a success. I shan't try it again."

Jean lifted her chin, with the slightly obstinate expression in which
she took refuge when her will was questioned.

"Oh-h! Well, you know best--or at least, you imagine you do. I should
have thought, however, being of a simple and credulous nature, that you
were enjoying yourself excessively when you walked through that
conservatory last night. If you wished to hide your head at that moment
you were a remarkably modest ostrich, for it looked most animated and
attractive. Who was your partner, by the way? He looked quite nice."

"Quite nice!" Vanna lifted her coffee-cup to hide a twitching lip.
Behold the historic moment, and the heroine's romantic impression of her
future spouse. "I must remember this," was the mental resolve, as she
answered tranquilly:

"He was more than nice, he was a delightful man. I was not introduced
to him until after twelve o'clock, but our talk together was the best
part of the evening. His name is Gloucester."

Jean dropped her fork with a little clatter of surprise.

"Gloucester? Not Robert Gloucester? Surely not! He could not possibly
have been there."

"He was, though. Very much there, for he is staying in the house. He
naively observed that he had intended to go to bed, but as the
`confounded noise' had kept him awake, he came downstairs in
desperation, and Miss Morton introduced him to me. You did not look as
if you recognised each other."

"We didn't! I have never seen him before, but I have heard--oh, my
dear, libraries about him! He is the Mortons' theme. We all have
themes, on which we fall back on every possible pause of the
conversation. My theme, poor butterfly, is fun and clothes; yours, my
angel, has been the same, plus a tinge of duty and maiden aunt; the
Mortons' is Robert Gloucester, his words, deeds, thoughts, looks, ideas.
He's been abroad for years and years, chiefly occupied in losing his
money, so far as I can understand. He seems to have a specialty for
losing money, but their infat