Norah rose as readily as if the new arrivals had been a relief to her mind.  Mrs. Vanstone was the next to leave her chair.  These two went away first, to receive the visitors.  Magdalen, who preferred the society of her father and Frank, pleaded hard to be left behind; but Miss Garth, after granting five minutes’ grace, took her into custody and marched her out of the room.  Frank rose to take his leave.

“No, no,” said Mr. Vanstone, detaining him.  “Don’t go.  These people won’t stop long.  Mr. Marrable’s a merchant at Bristol.  I’ve met him once or twice, when the girls forced me to take them to parties at Clifton.  Mere acquaintances, nothing more.  Come and smoke a cigar in the greenhouse.  Hang all visitors—­they worry one’s life out.  I’ll appear at the last moment with an apology; and you shall follow me at a safe distance, and be a proof that I was really engaged.”

Proposing this ingenious stratagem in a confidential whisper, Mr. Vanstone took Frank’s arm and led him round the house by the back way.  The first ten minutes of seclusion in the conservatory passed without events of any kind.  At the end of that time, a flying figure in bright garments flashed upon the two gentlemen through the glass—­the door was flung open—­flower-pots fell in homage to passing petticoats—­and Mr. Vanstone’s youngest daughter ran up to him at headlong speed, with every external appearance of having suddenly taken leave of her senses.

“Papa! the dream of my whole life is realized,” she said, as soon as she could speak.  “I shall fly through the roof of the greenhouse if somebody doesn’t hold me down.  The Marrables have come here with an invitation.  Guess, you darling—­guess what they’re going to give at Evergreen Lodge!”

“A ball!” said Mr. Vanstone, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Private Theatricals!!!” cried Magdalen, her clear young voice ringing through the conservatory like a bell; her loose sleeves falling back and showing her round white arms to the dimpled elbows, as she clapped her hands ecstatically in the air. “‘The Rivals’ is the play, papa—­’The Rivals,’ by the famous what’s-his-name—­and they want ME to act!  The one thing in the whole universe that I long to do most.  It all depends on you.  Mamma shakes her head; and Miss Garth looks daggers; and Norah’s as sulky as usual—­but if you say Yes, they must all three give way and let me do as I like.  Say Yes,” she pleaded, nestling softly up to her father, and pressing her lips with a fond gentleness to his ear, as she whispered the next words.  “Say Yes, and I’ll be a good girl for the rest of my life.”

“A good girl?” repeated Mr. Vanstone—­“a mad girl, I think you must mean.  Hang these people and their theatricals!  I shall have to go indoors and see about this matter.  You needn’t throw away your cigar, Frank.  You’re well out of the business, and you can stop here.”

“No, he can’t,” said Magdalen.  “He’s in the business, too.”