The evening was half over, and the girls had settled down to the dance, when suddenly, unexpectedly, the great excitement arrived. At a moment when the music had ceased, and the various couples were preparing for the usual promenade around the Hall, a loud roar was heard from without, and into the middle of the floor there trotted nothing more nor less than a tawny yellow lion, which, being confronted by a crowd of spectators, drew back as if in fear, and crouched in threatening manner. Its masked face showed a savage row of teeth; a mass of red hair, shortened by that mysterious process known as "back combing," produced a sufficiently convincing mane; a yellow skin hearthrug was wrapped round the body, while paint and wadding combined had contrived a wonderfully good imitation of claws. It was the colour of the hair alone which revealed the identity of the Lion to her companions. "It's that wretched little ginger Georgie!" "That little ginger beast!" went the cry from lip to lip. But, abuse her as they might, for the rest of the evening "Ginger Georgie" remained the centre of attraction, as she persistently ambled after Topsy, and gnawed at her brown feet, evidently recognising in her at once a compatriot and a tit-bit. Well, well! _Il faut souffrire pour etre--celebre_! When supper-time arrived, and the lion's mask was removed, behold a countenance so magenta with heat that compared with it even the Letter Box herself was pale. The two sufferers were waited upon with the most assiduous attention, as was indeed only fair. When one has voluntarily endured a condition of semi-suffocation throughout an evening's "pleasuring" for the unselfish reason of providing amusement for others, it's a poor thing if one cannot be assisted to lemonade in return. The Lion sat up well into the night combing out her mane; the Letter Box had the first bad headache in her life, but both tumbled into bed at last, proud and happy in the remembrance of an historic success. CHAPTER TWENTY. UNDERGRADUATE FRIENDS. Hannah strolled into Darsie's study, open letter in hand. "Here's games!" she announced. "An invitation from Mrs Hoare for myself and friend--that's you--to go to tea on Sunday afternoon. That's because I'm Dan's sister, of course. He'll be there, too, I expect, and the handsome Percival, and lots more men. The question is, shall we go?" Now Mrs Hoare was the wife of the head of that well-known college of which Dan and Ralph were members, and the invitation was therefore the fulfilment of one of Darsie's dreams. "Of course we'll go!" she cried ardently. "Sunday tea at a man's college is part of the Cambridge programme, and we want to see all that we can. Personally, I consider that they might have asked us before." She lay back in her seat, and stared dreamily at the wall, puckering her brow in thought, the while Hannah chuckled in the background. "I know what you are thinking about!"