ently; a band of fox-hunters arrived; girls had been chosen,
and in the small space of floor that remained the white skirts and red
tail coats passed and repassed, borne along Strauss's indomitable
rhythms.

An hour passed: perspiration had begun to loosen the work of
curling-tongs; dust had thickened the voices, but the joy of exercise
was in every head and limb. A couple would rush off for a cup of tea, or
an ice, and then, pale and breathless, return to the fray. Mrs. Manly
was the gayest. Pushing her children out of her skirts, she called upon
May:

'Now then, May, have you a partner? We are going to have a real romp--we
are going to have Kitchen Lancers. I'll undertake to see everybody
through them.'

A select few, by signs, winks, and natural instinct, were drawn towards
this convivial circle; but, notwithstanding all her efforts to make
herself understood, Mrs. Manly was sadly hampered by the presence of a
tub-like old lady who, with a small boy, was seeking a _vis-a-vis._

'My dear May, we can't have her here, we are going to romp; anyone can
see that. Tell her we are going to dance Kitchen Lancers.'

But the old lady could not be made to understand, and it was with
difficulty that she was disentangled from the sixteen. At that moment
the appearance of a waiter with a telegram caused the dancers to pause.
Mr. Burke's name was whispered in front of the messenger; but he who,
until that evening, had been Mr. Burke, was now the Marquis of
Kilearney. The smiling mouth drooped to an expression of fear as he tore
open the envelope. One glance was enough; he looked about the room like
one dazed. Then, as his eyes fell upon the vague faces seen looking
through the wet November pane, he muttered: 'Oh! you brutes, you brutes!
so you have shot my brother!'

Unchecked, the harper twanged and the fiddler scraped out the tune of
their Lancers. Few really knew what had happened, and the newly-made
marquis had to fight his way through women who, in skin-tight dresses,
danced with wantoning movements of the hips, and threw themselves into
the arms of men, to be, in true kitchen-fashion, whirled round and round
with prodigious violence.

Nevertheless, Lord Dungory and Lord Rosshill could not conceal their
annoyance; both felt keenly that they had compromised themselves by
remaining in the room after the news of so dreadful a catastrophe. But,
as Mrs. Barton was anxious that her daughter's success should not be
interfered