’And always will be, I suspect.  So much for my bargain with Clara to dance with her at her first ball!’

‘You like dancing?’ exclaimed Isabel, rejoiced to find another resemblance to the fantastic Viscount.

‘Last year’s Yeomanry ball was the best fun in the world!’

‘There, Isabel,’ said Lady Conway, ’you ought to be gratified to find a young man candid enough to allow that he likes it!  But since that cannot be, I must find some other plan—­’

‘What cannot be?’ exclaimed Louis.  ’You don’t mean to omit the dancing—­’

’It could not be enjoyed without you.  Your cousins and friends could not bear to see you sitting down—­’

Isabel’s lips were compressed, and the foam of her waves laughed scornfully under her pencil.

‘They must get accustomed to the melancholy spectacle,’ said Louis.  ’I do not mean to intermit the Yeomanry ball, if it take place while I am at home.  The chaperons are the best company, after all.  Reconsider it, my dear aunt, or you will keep me from coming at all.’

Lady Conway was only considering of tableaux, and Louis took fire at the notion:  he already beheld Waverley in his beloved Yeomanry suit, Isabel as Flora, Clara as Davie Gellatley—­the character she would most appreciate.  Isabel roused herself to say that tableaux were very dull work to all save the actors, and soon were mere weariness to them.  Her stepmother told her she had once been of a different mind, when she had been Isabel Bruce, kneeling in her cell, the ring before her.  ‘I was young enough then to think myself Isabel,’ was her answer, and she drew the more diligently because Fitzjocelyn could not restrain an interjection, and a look which meant, ’What an Isabel she must have been!’

She sat passive while Lady Conway and Louis decked up a scene for Flora MacIvor; but presently it appeared that the Waverley of the piece was to be, according to Louis, not the proper owner of the Yeomanry uniform, but James Frost.  His aunt exclaimed, and the rehearsals were strong temptation; but he made answer, ’No—­you must not reckon on me:  my father would not like it.’

The manful childishness, the childish manfulness of such a reply, were impenetrable.  If his two-and-twenty years did not make him ashamed of saying so, nothing else could, and it covered a good deal.  He knew that his father’s fastidious pride would dislike his making a spectacle of himself, and thought that it would be presuming unkindly on to-day’s liberty to involve himself in what would necessitate terms more intimate than were desired.

The luncheon silenced the consultation, which was to be a great secret from the children; but afterwards, when it was resumed, with the addition of James Frost, Fitzjocelyn was vexed to find the tableaux discarded; not avowedly because he excluded himself from a share, but because the style of people might not understand them.  The entertainment was to be a Christmas-tree—­not so hackneyed a spectacle in the year 1848 as in 1857—­and Louis launched into a world of couplets for mottoes.  Next came the question of guests, when Lady Conway read out names from the card-basket, and Fitzjocelyn was in favour of everybody, till Jem, after many counter-statements, assured Lady Conway that he was trying to fill her rooms with the most intolerable people in the world.