t require the
costume, but the thing in itself was so beautiful that she could not
help buying it. And having spent a hundred guineas on this masterpiece,
there arose in her mind a natural craving to exhibit it; to feel that
she was being pointed out as one of the best-dressed women in the
crowded room; to know that women were whispering to each other
significantly, "Worth," as the nocturn in velvet and silk and
glimmering jet swept by them.

There was a good deal more discussion, and it was ultimately settled
that Vixen should go to the ball. She had no positive objection. She
would have liked the idea of the ball well enough perhaps, if it had
not been for Captain Winstanley. It was his advocacy that made the
subject odious.

"How very rudely you behaved to Captain Winstanley, Violet," said Mrs.
Tempest, when her visitor had departed.

"Did I, mamma?" inquired Vixen listlessly. "I thought I was
extraordinarily civil. If you knew how I should have liked to behave to
him, you would think so too."

"I can not imagine why you are so prejudiced against him," pursued Mrs.
Tempest fretfully.

"It is not prejudice, mamma, but instinct, like Argus's. That man is
destined to do us some great wrong, if we do not escape out of his
clutches."

"It is shameful of you to say such things," cried the widow, pale with
anger. "What have you to say against him? What fault can you find with
him? You cannot deny that he is most gentlemanlike."

"No, mamma; he is a little too gentlemanlike. He makes a trade of his
gentlemanliness. He is too highly polished for me."

"You prefer a rough young fellow, like Roderick Vawdrey, who talks
slang, and smells of the stables."

"I prefer anyone who is good and true," retorted Vixen. "Roderick is a
man, and not to be named in the same breath with your fine gentleman."

"I admit that the comparison would be vastly to his disadvantage," said
the widow. "But it's time to dress for dinner."

"And we are to dine with the Mortimers," yawned Vixen. "What a bore!"

This young lady had not that natural bent for society which is
symptomatic of her age. The wound that pierced her young heart two
years ago had not healed so completely that she could find pleasure in
inane conversation across a primeval forest of sixpenny ferns, and the
factitious liveliness of a fashionable dinner-table.

CHAPTER XI.

"It shall be Measure for Measure."

The night of the ball came, and, in spite of her avers