all have something
to communicate concerning it. Thanks to our own exertions, I think it
was as good a one as ever I was at; and the old boy"--(I need scarcely
say Mr. Amherst has retired to rest)--was uncommon decent about giving
us the best champagne."

"You took very good care to show him how you appreciated his
hospitality," says Sir Penthony, mildly.

"Well, why shouldn't I do honor to the occasion? A ball at Herst don't
come every day. As a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house is
a failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day;
but ours has been a brilliant exception."

"Brilliant indeed," says Lady Stafford, demurely.

"But what became of Lowry?" demands this wretched young man, who has
never yet learned that silence is golden. "He told me this morning he
intended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes to
London by the midday train without a word of warning. Must have heard
some unpleasant news, I shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully cut up.
Did he tell you anything about it?" To Lady Stafford.

"No." In a freezing tone. "I see no reason why I, in particular, should
be bored by Mr. Lowry's private woes."

"Well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing," says Potts,
surprised, but obtuse as ever.

"So I am of yours; but I sincerely trust the fact of my being so will
not induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose your
heart or place all your money on the wrong horse."

"Did he lose his money, then?"

"Plantagenet, dancing has muddled your brain. How should I know whether
he lost his money or not? I am merely supposing. You are dull to-night.
Come and play a game at ecarte with me, to see if it may rouse you."

They part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleading
fatigue,--all except Mr. Potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy,
and proposes an impromptu dance in the ball-room. He is instantly
snubbed, and retires gracefully, consoling himself with the reflection
that he has evidently more "go" in his little finger than they can
boast in their entire bodies.

Sir Penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's parting
salutation,--meant to conciliate,--Cecil retires to her room in a state
of indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears.

Her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle of
her wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception.

"How now, Trimmins? Did I ring?" asks