She walked very slowly down the room to this couple.  She looked them long and full in the face with that confronting yet overlooking glance which women of the world can command on great occasions.  It fell, and pressed on them both like lead, they could not have told you why.  They looked at one another ruefully when she had passed them, and then their eyes followed her.  They saw her walk straight up to her uncle, and sit down by him, and take his hand.  They exchanged another uneasy look.

“Uncle,” said Lucy, speaking very quickly, “you are unhappy.  I am the cause.  I am come to say that I promise you not to marry anyone my aunt shall propose to me.”

“My dear girl, then you won’t marry that shopkeeper there?”

“What need of names, still less of epithets?  I will marry no friend of hers.”

“Ah! now you are my brother’s daughter again.”

“No, I love you no better than I did this morning; but the—­”

Celestial happiness diffused itself over old Fountain’s face, and Lucy glided back to the piano just as the quadrille ended.

“Give me your arm, Mr. Dodd,” said she, authoritatively.  She took his arm, and made the tour of the room leaning on him, and chatting gayly.

She introduced him to the best people, and contrived to appear to the whole room joyous and flattered, leaning on David’s arm.

The young fellows envied him so.

Every now and then David felt her noble white arm twitch convulsively, and her fingers pinch the cloth of his sleeve where it was loose.

She guided him to the supper-room.  It was empty.  “Oblige me with a glass of water.”

He gave it her.  She drank it.

“Mr. Dodd, the advice I gave you with my own lips I never retracted.  My aunt imposed upon you.  It was done to mortify you.  It has failed, as you may have observed.  My head aches so, it is intolerable.  When they ask you where I am, say I am unwell, and have retired to my room.  I shall not be at breakfast; directly after breakfast go to your sister, and tell her your friend Lucy declined you, though she knows your value, and would not let you be mortified by nullities and heartless fools.  Good-by, Mr. Dodd; try and believe that none of us you leave in this house are worth remembering, far less regretting.”

She vanished haughtily; David crept back to the ball-room.  It seemed dark by comparison now she who lent it luster was gone.  He stayed a few minutes, then heavy-hearted to bed.

The next morning he shook hands with Mr. Bazalgette, the only one who was up, kissed the terrible infant, who, suddenly remembering his many virtues, formally forgave him his one piece of injustice, and, as he came, so he went away, his bag on his shoulder and his violin-case in his hand.

He went to Cousin Mary and asked for Eve.  Cousin Mary’s face turned red:  “You will find her at No. 80 in this street.  She is gone into lodgings.”  The fact is, the cousins had had a tiff, and Eve had left the house that moment.