soon how much was known or guessed, of the family disasters.  He understood that he was no longer in the running for these exquisite creatures in their silks and satins.  The campaigning mothers had already dropped him out of their lists.  His pride recoiled in self-contempt from its own smart.  But he had been accustomed to walk this world as one of its princelings, and indifference to what it might think of him was not immediately attainable.

All the same, he was still handsome, distinguished, and well born.  No one could overlook him in a ballroom, and few women could be quite indifferent to his approach.  He danced as much as he wished, and with the prettiest girls.  His eyes meanwhile were always wandering over the crowd, searching in vain for a delicate face, and a wealth of brown hair.  Yet she had told him herself that Lady Langmoor was to bring her to this ball.  He only wanted to see her—­from a distance—­not to speak to her—­or be spoken to.

“Douglas,” said a laughing voice in his ear—­“will you dance the royal quadrille with me?  Something’s happened to my partner.  Mother sent me to ask you.”

He turned and saw the youngest daughter of the house, Lady Alice, with whom he had always been on chaffing, cousinly terms; and as she spoke a sudden stir and hush in the room showed that the royal party had arrived, and were being received in the hall below.

Falloden’s first irritable instinct was to refuse.  Why should he go out of his way to make himself a show for all these eyes?  Then a secret excitement—­an expectation—­awoke in him, and he nodded a laughing comment to Lady Alice, who just stayed to throw him a mocking compliment on his knee-breeches, and ran away.  Immediately afterwards, the royal party came through the lane made for them, shaking hands with their acquaintance, and bowing right and left.  As they disappeared into the room beyond, which had been reserved for them, the crowd closed up behind them.  Falloden heard a voice at his elbow.

“How are you?  I hear you’re to be in the quadrille.  You’ll have the pretty lady we saw at Oxford for a colleague.”

He turned to see Mrs. Glendower, very much made-up and glittering with diamonds.  Her face seemed to him to have grown harder and plainer, her smile more brazen since their Oxford meeting.  But she filled up time agreeably till the quadrille was ready.  She helped him to pin on the small rosette made of the Tamworth colours which marked all the dancers in the royal quadrille, and she told him that Constance Bledlow was to dance it with the Tamworths’ eldest son, Lord Bletchley.

“There’s a great deal of talk about her, as perhaps you know.  She’s very much admired.  The Langmoors are making a great fuss about her, and people say she’ll have all their money as well as her own some day—­not to speak of the old aunts in Yorkshire.  I shouldn’t wonder if the Tamworths had their eye upon her.  They’re not really well off.”