It was a mighty grand affair, this ball of the Royal Irish Artillery.  General Chattesworth had arrived that morning, just in time to preside over the hospitalities—­he could not contribute much to the dancing—­and his advent, still a little lame, but looking, as his friends told him, ten years younger for his snug little fit of the gout at Buxton, reinstated Aunt Becky in her place of power, to the secret disappointment of Madame Strafford, who had set her heart on doing the honours, and rehearsed for weeks, over her toilet, and even in bed, her little speeches, airs, and graces.

Lord Castlemallard was there, of course—­and the gay and splendid Lady Moira—­whom I mention because General Chattesworth opened the ball in a minuet with her ladyship—­hobbling with wonderful grace, and beaming with great ceremonious smiles through his honourable martyrdom.  But there were more than a score of peers there beside, with their peeresses in tall feathers, diamonds, and monstrous hoops.  And the lord lieutenant was very near coming—­and a lord lieutenant in those days, with a parliament to open, and all the regalia of his office about him, was a far greater personage than, in our democratic age, the sovereign in person.

Captain Cluffe had gone down in a chair to Puddock’s lodgings, to borrow a pair of magnificent knee-buckles.  Puddock had a second pair, and Cluffe’s own had not, he thought, quite recovered their good looks since that confounded ducking on the night of the serenade.  The gallant captain, learning that Puddock and Devereux intended walking—­it was only a step across to the barrack-yard—­and finding that Puddock could not at the moment lay his hand upon the buckles, and not wishing to keep the chair longer—­for he knew delay would inflame the fare, and did not like dispensing his shillings—­

‘Hey! walk?  I like the fancy,’ cried the gay captain, sending half-a-crown down stairs to his ‘two-legged ponies,’ as people pleasantly called them.  ’I’d rather walk with you than jog along in a chair by myself, my gay fellows, any day.’

Most young fellows of spirit, at the eve of a ball, have their heads pretty full.  There is always some one bright particular star to whom, even as they look on their own handsome features in the mirror, their adoration is paid.

Puddock’s shoe-buckles flashed for Gertrude Chattesworth, as he turned out his toes.  For her his cravat received its last careless touch—­his ruffles shook themselves, and fell in rich elegance about his plump little hands.  For her his diamond ring gleamed like a burning star from his white little finger; and for her the last fragrance was thrown over his pocket-handkerchief, and the last ogle thrown upon his looking-glass.  All the interest of his elaborate toilet—­the whole solemn process and detail—­was but a worship of his divinity, at which he officiated.  Much in the same way was Cluffe affected over his bedizenment in relation to his own lady-love; but in