ved a woman for her solid
virtues, mother? Who ever fell a victim to punctuality, patience,
or frugality? It is other and different qualities which colour the
personality and ensnare the heart; though the stodgy and reliable traits
hold it, I dare say, when once captured. Don't you know Berkeley says,
'D--n it, madam, who falls in love with attributes?'"

Meantime Violet and Celandine have come out on the balcony, and seeing
the tinkling musicians there, have straightway banished them to another
part of the house.

"A good thing, too!" murmured Bertie Godolphin, "making a beastly row in
that 'nailing' little corner, collecting a crowd sooner or later, don't
you know, and putting a dead stop to the jolly little flirtations."

The Honourable Arthur glanced critically at Celandine. "I should make up
to her," he said thoughtfully. "She's the best groomed one of the whole
stud, though why you call her Celandine I can't think."

"It's a flower, and her dress is yellow, can't you see, man? You've got
no sense of colour," said the candid Bertie. "I believe you'd just as
soon be a green parrot with a red head as not."

And now the guests began to arrive; so many of them and so near together
that we hardly had time to label them as they said good evening, and
told dear Lady Brighthelmston how pretty the decorations were, and how
prevalent the influenza had been, and how very sultry the weather, and
how clever it was of her to give her party in a vacant house, and what a
delightful marriage Rose was making, and how well dear Patricia looked.

The sound of the music drifted into the usually quiet street, and by
half-past eleven the ball was in full splendour. Lady Brighthelmston
stood alone now, greeting all the late arrivals; and we could catch a
glimpse now and then of Violet dancing with a beautiful being in a white
uniform, and of Rose followed about by her accepted lover, both of them
content with their lot, but with feet quite on the solid earth.

Celandine was a bit of a flirt, no doubt. She had many partners, walked
in the garden with them impartially, divided her dances, sat on the
stairs. Wherever her yellow draperies moved, nonsense, merriment, and
chatter followed in her wake.

Patricia danced often with Terence. We could see the dark head, darker
and a bit taller than the others, move through the throng, the diamond
arrow gleaming in its lustrous coils. She danced like a flower blown by
the wind. Nothing could