his we could tell by her expressive gestures; and she
finally seized the old gentleman by the lapels of his coat and danced
him breathlessly from the fireplace to the windows and back again, while
the elder girl clapped her hands and laughed.

"Isn't she lovely?" sighed Francesca, a little covetously, although she
is something of a beauty herself.

"I am sorry that her name is Bridget," said Mr. Beresford.

"For shame!" I cried indignantly. "It is Norah, or Veronica, or
Geraldine, or Patricia; yes, it is Patricia,--I know it as well as if I
had been at the christening.--Dawson, take the tea-things, please; and
do you know the name of the gentleman who has bought the house on the
opposite side?"

"It is Lord Brighton, miss." (You would never believe it, but we find
the name is spelled Brighthelmston.) "He hasn't bought the 'ouse; he has
taken it for a week, and is giving a ball there on the Tuesday evening.
He has four daughters, miss, and two h'orphan nieces that generally
spends the season with 'im. It's the youngest daughter he is bringing
out, that lively one you saw cutting about just now. They 'ave no
ballroom, I expect, in their town 'ouse, which accounts for their
renting one for this occasion. They stopped a month in this 'otel last
year, so I have the honour of m'luds acquaintance."

"Lady Brighthelmston is not living, I should judge," remarked Salemina,
in the tone of one who thinks it hardly worth while to ask.

"Oh, yes, miss, she's alive and 'earty; but the daughters manages
everythink, and what they down't manage the h'orphan nieces does. The
'ouse is run for the young ladies, but m'ludanlady seems to enjoy it."

Dovermarle Street was so interesting during the next few days that we
could scarcely bear to leave it, lest something exciting should happen
in our absence.

"A ball is so confining!" said Francesca, who had come back from the
corner of Piccadilly to watch the unloading of a huge van, and found
that it had no intention of stopping at Number Nine on the opposite
side.

First came a small army of charwomen, who scrubbed the house from top
to bottom. Then came men with canvas for floors, bronzes and jardinieres
and somebody's family portraits from an auction-room, chairs and sofas
and draperies from an upholsterer's.

The night before the event itself I announced my intention of staying in
our own drawing-room the whole of the next day. "I am more interested in
Patricia's debut," I said,