mortifying the Duchesse d'Ivry, of exasperating
old Lady Kew, and of annoying the young nobleman to whom Miss Ethel
was engaged. The girl seemed to take a pleasure in defying all three, a
something embittered her, alike against her friends and her enemies.
The old dowager chaffed and vented her wrath upon Lady Anne and Barnes.
Ethel kept the ball alive by herself almost. She refused to go home,
declining hints and commands alike. She was engaged for ever so many
dances more. Not dance with Count Punter? it would be rude to leave
him after promising him. Not waltz with Captain Blackball? He was not a
proper partner for her? Why then did Kew know him? Lord Kew walked and
talked with Captain Blackball every day. Was she to be so proud as
not to know Lord Kew's friends? She greeted the Captain with a most
fascinating smile as he came up whilst the controversy was pending, and
ended it by whirling round the room in his arms.

Madame d'Ivry viewed with such pleasure as might be expected the
defection of her adherents, and the triumph of her youthful rival, who
seemed to grow more beautiful with each waltz, so that the other dancers
paused to look at her, the men breaking out in enthusiasm, the reluctant
women being forced to join in the applause. Angry as she was, and
knowing how Ethel's conduct angered her grandson, old Lady Kew could not
help admiring the rebellious beauty, whose girlish spirit was more than
a match for the imperious dowager's tough old resolution. As for Mr.
Barnes's displeasure, the girl tossed her saucy head, shrugged her fair
shoulders, and passed on with a scornful laugh. In a word, Miss Ethel
conducted herself as a most reckless and intrepid young flirt, using her
eyes with the most consummate effect, chattering with astounding gaiety,
prodigal of smiles, gracious thanks and killing glances. What wicked
spirit moved her? Perhaps had she known the mischief she was doing, she
would have continued it still.

The sight of this wilfulness and levity smote poor Lord Kew's honest
heart with cruel pangs of mortification. The easy young nobleman
had passed many a year of his life in all sorts of wild company. The
chaumiere knew him, and the balls of Parisian actresses, the coulisses
of the opera at home and abroad. Those pretty heads of ladies whom
nobody knows, used to nod their shining ringlets at Kew, from private
boxes at theatres, or dubious Park broughams. He had run the career of
young men of pleasure