A lady who lived at Kilburn, and entertained largely in a house not designed for large entertainment, was ‘at home’ this evening.  At eleven o’clock the two drawing-rooms contained as many people as could sit and stand with semblance of comfort; around the hostess, on the landing, pressed a crowd, which grew constantly thicker by affluence from the staircase.  In the hall below a ‘Hungarian band’ discoursed very loud music.  Among recent arrivals appeared a troupe of nigger minstrels, engaged to give their exhilarating entertainment—­if space could be found for them.  Bursts of laughter from the dining-room announced the success of an American joker, who, in return for a substantial cheque, provided amusement in fashionable gatherings.  A brilliant scene.  The air, which encouraged perspiration, was rich with many odours; voices endeavouring to make themselves audible in colloquy, swelled to a tumultuous volume that vied with the Hungarian clangours.

In a corner of the staircase, squeezed behind two very fat women in very low dresses, stood Horace Lord.  His heated countenance wore a look of fretful impatience; he kept rising upon his toes in an endeavour to distinguish faces down in the hall.  At length his expression changed, and with eager eyes he began to force a way for himself between the fat women.  Not unrewarded with glaring glances, and even with severe remarks, he succeeded in gaining the foot of the staircase, and came within reach of the persons for whom he had been waiting.  These were Mrs. Damerel and Fanny French.  The elder lady exhibited a toilet of opulence corresponding with her mature charms; the younger, as became a debutante, wore graceful white, symbol of her maiden modesty.

‘You promised to be early,’ said Horace, addressing Mrs. Damerel, but regarding Fanny, who stood in conversation with a florid man of uncertain age.

‘Couldn’t get here before, my dear boy.’

‘Surely you haven’t brought that fellow with you?’

’Hush!  You mustn’t talk in that way.  We met at the door.  Mrs. Dane knows him.  What does it matter?’

Horace moved aside to Fanny.  Flushed with excitement, her hair adorned with flowers, she looked very pretty.

‘Come along,’ he said, gripping her hand more violently than he intended.  ‘Let us get upstairs.’

‘Oh, you hurt me!  Don’t be so silly.’

The man beside her gave Horace a friendly nod.  His name was Mankelow.  Horace had met him once or twice of late at Mrs. Damerel’s, but did not like him, and felt still less disposed to do so now that Mankelow was acquainted with Fanny French.  He suspected that the two were more familiar than Fanny pretended.  With little ceremony, he interposed himself between the girl and this possible rival.

‘Why didn’t you make her come earlier?’ he said to Fanny, as they began a slow upward struggle in the rear of Mrs. Damerel.

‘It isn’t fashionable to come early.’