‘One dance has tired me.  Why were you so late?’

’To give the others a chance?  To produce a greater impression by suspense?  No and no.  I wrote you I was with the Pettigrews.  We caught the coach, we caught the boat, we were only two hours late for the Ball; so we did wonders.  And good Mrs. Pettigrew is, pining somewhere to complete her adornment.  I was in the crush, spying for Emmy, when Mr. Mayor informed me it was the duty of every Irishwoman to dance her toes off, if she ’d be known for what she is.  And twirl! a man had me by the waist, and I dying to find you.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘Not to save these limbs from the lighted stake could I tell you!’

‘You are to perform a ceremonious bow to Lord Larrian.’

‘Chatter first! a little!’

The plea for chatter was disregarded.  It was visible that the hero of the night hung listening and in expectation.  He and the Beauty were named to one another, and they chatted through a quadrille.  Sir Lukin introduced a fellow-Harrovian of old days, Mr. Thomas Redworth, to his wife.

‘Our weather-prophet, meteorologist,’ he remarked, to set them going; ’you remember, in India, my pointing to you his name in a newspaper—­letter on the subject.  He was generally safe for the cricketing days.’

Lady Dunstane kindly appeared to call it to mind, and she led upon the them-queried at times by an abrupt ‘Eh?’ and ‘I beg pardon,’ for manifestly his gaze and one of his ears, if not the pair, were given to the young lady discoursing with Lord Larrian.  Beauty is rare; luckily is it rare, or, judging from its effect on men, and the very stoutest of them, our world would be internally more distracted planet than we see, to the perversion of business, courtesy, rights of property, and the rest.  She perceived an incipient victim, of the hundreds she anticipated, and she very tolerantly talked on:  ’The weather and women have some resemblance they say.  Is it true that he who reads the one can read the other?’

Lord Larrian here burst into a brave old laugh, exclaiming, ‘Oh! good!’

Mr. Redworth knitted his thick brows.  ’I beg pardon?  Ah! women!  Weather and women?  No; the one point more variable in women makes all the difference.’

‘Can you tell me what the General laughed at?’

The honest Englishman entered the trap with promptitude.  ’She said:—­who is she, may I ask you?’

Lady Dunstane mentioned her name.

Daughter of the famous Dan Merion?  The young lady merited examination for her father’s sake.  But when reminded of her laughter-moving speech, Mr. Redworth bungled it; he owned he spoilt it, and candidly stated his inability to see the fun.  ’She said, St. George’s Channel in a gale ought to be called St. Patrick’s—­something—­I missed some point.  That quadrille-tune, the Pastourelle, or something . . .’

‘She had experience of the Channel last night,’ Lady Dunstane pursued, and they both, while in seeming converse, caught snatches from their neighbours, during a pause of the dance.