distinguished by its sequel. A general adjournment was to follow to
the great ball-room, which was given over without reserve on this
occasion to the revellers and their friends from the environs; for at
the Towers nothing was done by halves in those days. There the august
heads of the household were expected to walk solemnly through a
quadrille with the housekeeper and head butler. Mrs. Masham's and Mr.
Norbury's sense of responsibility on these occasions can neither be
imagined nor described. This great event made conscientious dressing for
dinner more than usually necessary, however defective the excitement of
the household might make the preparation and service thereof.

These exigencies were what limited Gwen's quiet ten minutes with her
father within the narrow bounds of half an hour, leaving no margin at
all for more than three words with her mother on her way to her own
interview with Miss Lutwyche. She exceeded her estimate almost before
her ladyship's dressing-room door had swung to behind her.

"Well, mamma dear, I hope you're satisfied."

"I am, my dear. At least, I am not dissatisfied.... Don't kiss me in
front, please, because I have a little crack on the corner of my lip."
The Countess accepted her daughter's _accolade_ on an unsympathetic
cheek-bone. "What are you referring to?"

"Why--Adrian not coming till to-morrow, of course. What did you suppose
I meant?"

"I did not suppose. Some day you will live to acknowledge--I am
convinced of it--that what your father and I thought best was dictated
by simple common sense and prudence. I am sure Sir Hamilton will not
misinterpret our motives. Nor Lady Torrens."

"He's a nice old Bart, the Bart. We are great friends. He likes it. He
gets all the kissing for nothing.... What?"

The Countess may have contemplated some protest against the pronounced
ratification implied of fatherdom-in-law. She gave it up, and said:--"I
was not going to say anything. Go on!"

The way in which these two guessed each other's thoughts was phenomenal.
Gwen knew all about it. "Come, mamma!" said she. "You know the Bart
would not have liked it half so much if I had been a dowdy."

"I cannot pretend to have thought upon the subject." If her ladyship
threw a greater severity into her manner than the occasion seemed to
call for, it was not merely because she disapproved of her beautiful
daughter's want of _retenue_, or questionable style, or doubtful taste,
or defective breeding.