The ballroom, built at the back of the main house, was connected with it by wide curving corridors, which contained the family portraits, and which had long windows which opened out on little balconies.  On the night of the ball these balconies were lighted by round yellow lanterns, so that the effect from the outside was that of a succession of full moons.

The ballroom was octagonal, and canopied with a blue ceiling studded with silver stars.  There were cupids with garlands on the side walls, and faded blue brocade hangings.  Across one end of the ballroom was the long gallery reserved for those whom the Merriweathers still called “the tenantry,” and it was here that Mary and Mrs. Flippin always sat after baking cakes.

Mrs. Flippin had not baked the cakes to-day, nor was she in the gallery, for her daughter, Mary, was among the guests on the ballroom floor, and her mother’s own good sense had kept her at home.

“I shall look after Miss MacVeigh,” she had said.  “I want Truxton to bring you over and show you in your pretty new dress.”

When they came, Madge, who was sitting up, insisted that she, too, must see Mary.  “My dear, my dear,” she said, “what a wonderful frock.”

“Yes,” Mary said, “it is.  It is one of Becky’s, and she gave it to me.  And the turquoises are Mrs. Beaufort’s.”

Madge, who knew the whole alphabet of smart costumers, was aware of the sophisticated perfection of that fluff of jade green tulle.  The touch of gold at the girdle, the flash of gold for the petticoat.  She guessed the price, a stiff one, and wondered that Mary should speak of it casually as “one of Becky’s.”

“The turquoises are the perfect touch.”

“That was Becky’s idea.  It seemed queer to me at first, blue with the green.  But she said if I just wore this band around my hair, and the ring.  And it does seem right, doesn’t it?”

“It is perfect.  What is Miss Bannister wearing?”

“Silver and white—­lace, you know.  The new kind, like a cobweb—­with silver underneath—­and a rose-colored fan—­and pearls.  You should see her pearls, Miss MacVeigh.  Tell her about them, Truxton.”

“Well, once upon a time they belonged to a queen.  Becky’s great-grandfather on the Meredith side was a diplomat in Paris, and he bought them, or so the story runs.  Becky only wears a part of them.  The rest are in the family vaults.”

Madge listened, and showed no surprise.  But that account of lace and silver, and priceless pearls did not sound in the least like the new little girl about whom George had, in the few times that she had seen him of late, been so silent.

“If only Flora would get well, and let me leave this beastly hole,” had been the burden of his complaint.

“I thought you liked it.”

“It is well enough for a time.”

“What about the new little girl?”

He was plainly embarrassed, but bluffed it out.  “I wish you wouldn’t ask questions.”