Captain Bertram, raising his hat to the Bells as he passed, approached his mother’s side.  He was introduced in due form to Lady Verney and the Lady Georgiana, and the two young people, retiring a little into the background, began to chat.

“Who are those extraordinary folk?” asked Lady Georgiana of her companion.

She waved her fan in the direction of Mrs. Bell’s fat back.

“Do you know them, Captain Bertram?”

His eyes fairly danced with mirth as he swept them over the little group.

“I must confess something, Lady Georgiana.  I do know those young ladies and their mother.  I have supped with them.”

“Oh, horrors!  And yet, how entertaining.  What were they like?”

“Like themselves.”

“That is no answer.  Do divert me with an account of them all.  I am sure they are deliciously original.  I should like to sketch that mother’s broad back beyond anything.”

It was at this moment that Beatrice and Catherine appeared together on the scene.  Captain Bertram, who thought himself an adept in a certain mild, sarcastic description, was about to gratify Lady Georgiana with a graphic account of the Bells’ supper-table, when his gaze met the kind, clear, happy expression of Beatrice Meadowsweet’s eyes.  He felt his heart stir within him.  The Bells were her friends, and she was so good, bless her—­the best girl he had ever met.  No, he could not, he would not, turn them into fun, just to while away an idle five minutes.

Mrs. Bertram called Catherine over to introduce her to Lady Verney, and Bertram, in a moment, was by Beatrice’s side.

“This is lucky,” he said.  “I thought you had left me for the day.”

“Why should you think that?” she replied.  “It would be impossible for people not constantly to come against each other in a small place like this.”

“May I come with you now?  You seem very busy.”

“You can come and help me if you feel inclined.  I always have a great deal to do at these feasts; I have been at them for years, and know all about them, and the Rector invariably expects me to keep the ball going.”

“What ball?”

“The ball of pleasure.  Each hand must grasp it—­everyone must be happy.  That is the Hector’s aim and mine.”

“I think it is your aim not only to-day, but every day.”

“Yes, if I can manage it.  I can’t always.”

“You could always make me very happy.”

Beatrice turned her eyes and looked at him.  Her look made him blush.

“You are mistaken when you say that,” she responded, in a grave tone.  “You are not the sort of person to be made happy by a simple country girl like me.  The Northbury people only need small things, and many times it is within my power to supply their desires.  But you are different.  You would not be content with small things.”

“Assuredly not from you.”

Then he paused; and as she blushed this time, he hastened to add: