s place at the thought of seeing him. "He will
turn slowly and hold his shoulders stiffly and try to look indifferent,"
she thought, "but oh--his eyes!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Sparrow and the Cassowary were much delighted with their own dinner
and their own ball.

Freddy Newlyn was a kindly little man, with an absurd fussy manner full
of importance, as so many kindly little men have. Is it by some gentle
providential dispensation that the physically insignificant are so often
upheld by harmless vanity?

The Cassowary, on the other hand, bony and distressingly red in the
wrong places, suffered from a realisation of her own defects that she
endeavoured to conceal by an assumption of the wildest high spirits.
This jocularity, of course, became at times rather painful, but as she
was possessed of much money and a kind heart, it was forgiven her.

The dinner was very large, and the guests sat at small tables all over
the place--a delightful invention of the Cassowary's, who screamed with
piercing glee at the excitement displayed as lots were drawn for the
different tables.

"Seven, Sir John? Then you'll find your partner and go to the
library--only three tables there! Dicky, what is your number? Four? Oh,
you lucky little brute The conservatory. Who's your girl? Oh, yes,
Piggy! Aren't I a lamb?"

The numbers of the various tables were being drawn, as she spoke, from a
vase on the drawing-room table.

"And you, M. Joyselle? Thirteen. Oh, what awful luck!"

Everyone screamed with laughter, for the Norman was looking with
unfeigned concern at his bit of paper.

"_Je n'aime pas le treize_, madame," he protested, disregarding the
prevailing mirth.

"But--what can I do? It's a nice table in the billiard-room. Who's your
partner?"

"Lady Sophy Browne--which is she?"

"Oh, Sophy Browne. Go on drawing, you men, I must speak to Fred. I say,
Fred----"

The good-natured Cassowary tramped across to the door where the Sparrow
was standing, and bending down, said something to him.

"Is he really? I say, that's too bad. But you can't change the tables,
can you, dear?"

"I don't know. These kind of people are so superstitious, you see; it's
enough to make him glum all the evening, and Sophy was so keen--she says
he looks like a bust by Rodin, and she wants to do him in pen and ink."

The Sparrow rubbed his pointed nose thoughtfully.

"Change the two of 'em to another table, can't you?"

"I've got 'em all sort