The Simpsons were new people at Bundaboo, which Mr Thornycroft had let.  He now lived at Redford—­in a third part of the great house, the other two-thirds being closed.  He was not coming to the ball, Alice said.  “Getting too old for balls.”

In their white frocks and flowers, the friends went to the drawing-room, and in the thick of the arrivals Jim brought up from the bachelors’ quarters the six Bundaboo young men.  Mrs Simpson introduced them to Mrs Urquhart and her bevy of assistant hostesses.

“Mr Leader—­Mr Henry Leader—­down from Queensland; Mr Parkinson—­ English—­globe-trotter; my two sons, whom you know; my nephew, Mr Breen.”

Thus do the sportive Fates love to make mock of the most carefully-laid family plans!

Rose and Peter faced each other, sharing one blush between them.  Their natural pleasure and astonishment was only equalled by their mutual admiration.

“What a little love she is in that pretty gown,” thought he, a connoisseur in gowns.  And “Who would take him for a draper now?” thought she, noting the vigorous frame and the perfect correctness of its garb.  As a matter of fact, no one did take him for a draper, and no one cared what he was, since he was Mrs Simpson’s nephew and a man.

As soon as it was understood that a previous acquaintanceship existed between them, Rose was given Peter to take care of—­to show round and introduce.  They walked off, elated.

“Well, I never expected to see you here!” said she.

“Nor I you,” said he.  “I thought I was never going to see you any more.”

“How is your mother?  How is dear Bruce?  Will anyone take him for walks while you are away?  How terribly he will miss you!”

“Well, it is something to be missed, even by a dog.”

“What a nice face your aunt has!  Is she your father’s—?”

“No, my mother’s.  They are very much alike.  But—­you don’t know my mother—­”

The blessed Urquhart children romped up to them at this opportune moment, thrusting forward their basket of programmes.  Rose and Peter each took a card, and Peter proceeded to business.

“With pleasure,” said Rose.  And then:  “Oh, if you like.”—­“Well, only one more round one.”—­“I belong to the house, and must distribute myself.”—­“No, no, that’s enough; leave room for all the nice girls I am going to introduce you to—­Miss Alice Urquhart—­Mr Breen, dear—­ Mrs Simpson’s nephew, and a friend of mine in town.”

It slipped out unawares.  Peter’s air, as he scribbled “Miss Urquhart” on his card, was seraphic.  Later, Alice snatched a chance to whisper to Rose:  “What a good-looking fellow!  Who is he?” And Rose hastened to explain that she knew him only very slightly.

They had their first waltz together, and he danced delightfully.  This was a fresh agreeable surprise to Rose—­as if drapers did not take dancing lessons and make use of them like other people; she was almost indiscreet in her eulogies on his performance.  But there was not room for all, or half, or a quarter, to dance at once; and the crowded house was hot, and the night outside soft, dry, delicious; and the Five Creeks garden was simply made to be sat out in.