"Hughie," said Joan, "you're the only real friend I have in the world! I was nearly _crying_ for something to eat. That, and seeing other people dance and not me. Hughie, it was simply awful! I had no idea: if I had sat there much longer I should have burst into tears. I'd forgotten, too, that by giving away all my partners I was giving away my supper. If I'd remembered I would have kept just one--a little one. But never mind, now: the plague is stayed. I owe you one for this. How did you manage to carry all those things?" "Large hands," said Hughie. "Half a minute!" He produced from his tail-pocket two forks, a napkin, and a bottle of soda-water. "I remembered you liked your drink diluted," he said, pouring out both bottles at once. "I noticed it at dinner, the other night." "Hughie, you're a dear!" said Joan impulsively. "Say when!" remarked Hughie unsteadily. * * * * * It was five o'clock in the morning. The band had played "Whisper and I shall hear," followed by "John Peel," followed by "God save the King," followed by "John Peel," once more, followed by "God save the King" again, and the musicians were now putting away their instruments with an air of finality which intimated that in their humble opinion the Midfield Hunt Ball had had its money's worth. The Manors party, all twelve of them, were being scientifically packed into an omnibus constructed to seat ten uncomfortably, and Joan was waiting her turn in the portico. At this moment Sylvia Tarrant, followed by a slightly sheepish brother, came down the steps. Her cheeks were excessively pink and her eyes blazed. She saw Joan, and stopped. "I was afraid I was going to miss you," she said. "Good-night!" "Good-night!" said Joan. The little girl--she was a head shorter than Joan--placed her hands upon her new friend's shoulders, and stood on tiptoe. "I should like to kiss you," she said shyly. "Oh, my dear!" said Joan, quite flustered. "Of course--if you like. There!" She was unusually silent all the way home, and when they reached Manors said good-night to Mrs. Leroy and flitted upstairs to her room. The rest of the party dispersed ten minutes later, and Hughie was left alone with his host and hostess. "I have never known that child have a headache before," said Mrs. Leroy rather anxiously, as Hughie lighted her candle. "I hope there's nothing wrong." "She's as right as rain," said Hughie. "She gave up all her partners--every man Jack of them--I mean--I'm sorry! I don't think she meant me to tell--" "You may as well finish now," said Mrs. Leroy composedly. Hughie did so. Mrs. Leroy nodded.