Colonel Lightmark, to whom Mrs. Dollond addressed this complimentary query (which, after all, was more of an assertion or challenge, in that it took its answer for granted), was arrayed in the brilliant scarlet and silver of the regiment which had once the honour of calling him Colonel; his tunic was so tight that sitting down was almost an impossibility for him, and Mrs. Dollond, who looked charming in her powder and brocade, could not help wondering whether any mortal buttons could stand the strain; and, on the other hand, the dimensions of his patent leather boots were such that standing, for a man of his weight, involved a torture which it was hard to conceal.  And yet the veteran was happy—­he was positively radiant.  He felt that his nephew’s success in the world of Art and of Society considerably enhanced his own importance; he was not ashamed to owe a portion of his brilliance to borrowed light—­and tonight one could not count the celebrities on the fingers of both hands.

The old hero-worshipper gazed complacently at the little ever-shifting crowd which surrounded his nephew and his niece (so he called her) at their post near the doorway, and he listened to Mrs. Dollond’s sparkling sallies with a blissful ignorance of her secret ambition in the direction of a partner who would make her dance, and for whose edification she would be able to liken the Colonel’s warlike figure to a newly-boiled lobster, or a ripe tomato.

“Regular flower-show, isn’t it?” he suggested, naively reinforcing his simile.  “I don’t know what the dickens they’re all meant for, but a good many of them seem to have escaped from the Lyceum—­Juliets, and Portias, and Shylocks, and so forth.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dollond.  “I think the Shylocks must be picture-dealers, you know.  But their conversation isn’t very Shakespearian, is it?  I heard Hamlet say, just now, that the floor was too perfect for anything, and Ophelia—­she was dancing with a Pierrot incroyable—­told her partner that she adored waltzing to a string band!”

They both laughed, the Colonel shortly and boisterously, Mrs. Dollond in a manner which suggested careful study before a looking-glass, with an effect of dimples and of flashing teeth.

“What wicked things you say, Colonel Lightmark,” she added demurely.  “Who is that stately person in the dark figured silk, with a cinque-cento ruff?  Isn’t it Lady Garnett’s niece?”

“Yes, that’s Miss Masters,” said the Colonel, “and I suppose that’s Lady Garnett with her.  I don’t think I’ve ever met Lady Garnett, though I’ve often heard of her.  What is her dress—­whom is she intended to represent?  I don’t see how the dickens one’s expected to know, but you’re so clever.”

“Oh, she’s dressed as—­as Lady Garnett!  What a lot of people—­real people, you know—­there are here to-night!  Dear me, there’s the music again already.  I believe I’ve got to dance this time.  I do hope my partner’s dress won’t clash with mine too awfully.  That’s the worst of fancy dress balls; they really ought to be stage-managed by a painter, and the period ought to be limited.  One’s never safe.  Our dance, Mr. Copal?  Number six?  Yes, I think it must be!  A polka?  Then we’ll waltz!”