The denouement came swiftly.  Gertrude never forgot it.

It was the night of the great ball at Nosham Taws.  The whole neighbourhood was invited.  How Gertrude’s heart had beat with anticipation, and with what trepidation she had overhauled her scant wardrobe in order to appear not unworthy in Lord Ronald’s eyes.  Her resources were poor indeed, yet the inborn genius for dress that she inherited from her French mother stood her in good stead.  She twined a single rose in her hair and contrived herself a dress out of a few old newspapers and the inside of an umbrella that would have graced a court.  Round her waist she bound a single braid of bagstring, while a piece of old lace that had been her mother’s was suspended to her ear by a thread.

Gertrude was the cynosure of all eyes.  Floating to the strains of the music she presented a picture of bright girlish innocence that no one could see undisenraptured.

The ball was at its height.  It was away up!

Ronald stood with Gertrude in the shrubbery.  They looked into one another’s eyes.

“Gertrude,” he said, “I love you.”

Simple words, and yet they thrilled every fibre in the girl’s costume.

“Ronald!” she said, and cast herself about his neck.

At this moment the Earl appeared standing beside them in the moonlight.  His stern face was distorted with indignation.

“So!” he said, turning to Ronald, “it appears that you have chosen!”

“I have,” said Ronald with hauteur.

“You prefer to marry this penniless girl rather than the heiress I have selected for you.”

Gertrude looked from father to son in amazement.

“Yes,” said Ronald.

“Be it so,” said the Earl, draining a dipper of gin which he carried, and resuming his calm.  “Then I disinherit you.  Leave this place, and never return to it.”

“Come, Gertrude,” said Ronald tenderly, “let us flee together.”

Gertrude stood before them.  The rose had fallen from her head.  The lace had fallen from her ear and the bagstring had come undone from her waist.  Her newspapers were crumpled beyond recognition.  But dishevelled and illegible as she was, she was still mistress of herself.

“Never,” she said firmly.  “Ronald, you shall never make this sacrifice for me.”  Then to the Earl, in tones of ice, “There is a pride, sir, as great even as yours.  The daughter of Metschnikoff McFiggin need crave a boon from no one.”

With that she hauled from her bosom the daguerreotype of her father and pressed it to her lips.

The earl started as if shot.  “That name!” he cried, “that face! that photograph! stop!”

There!  There is no need to finish; my readers have long since divined it.  Gertrude was the heiress.

The lovers fell into one another’s arms.  The Earl’s proud face relaxed.  “God bless you,” he said.  The Countess and the guests came pouring out upon the lawn.  The breaking day illuminated a scene of gay congratulations.