"Cherub, keep quiet!" said the _coutumière_. "You have absolutely nothing whatever to recommend you but your clothes, so don't spoil it by babbling. There, Hughie! That is the sort of thing. You must go up to town next week and order some. Run away, Cherub! Now, another thing, Hughie. Look at your hands. They're like a coal-heaver's, except that they're clean. Can't you get them attended to?" Hughie surveyed his hands in a reminiscent fashion. They were serviceable members, and had pulled their owner through many rough places. At present the palms bore the mark of the Orinoco's coal-shovels, and there was a great scar on one wrist where Hughie had incautiously touched a hot bearing. There was also an incision in the middle knuckle of the right hand, caused by the impact of Mr. Gates's front teeth on an historic occasion. There were other and older marks, and most of them had some interesting story attached to them. But of course Joan did not know this. To her they were large, unsightly, un-manicured hands--only that and nothing more. Hughie sighed. All his old assets seemed to have become liabilities, somehow. "Aren't they a scandal, Hughie?" Joan repeated. "I suppose they are, Joey," said Hughie, coming out of his reverie. "Right O! I'll get them seen to. I don't suppose they're ever likely to be much use to me again," he added in a depressed tone, "so they might as well be made ornamental. I'll go and consult Sophy Fullgarney about them when I get back to town." "Who's she?" said Joey quickly. "Manicurist--before your time," said Hughie briefly, pleased to feel that he could give points to his ward in knowledge of something. "Any more requirements, Joey?" "Let me see. Oh, yes. Can you dance?" "Used to waltz," said Hughie cautiously. "Decently?" "I can get round a room." "Can you reverse properly?" "If a man reversed in my young days," said Hughie, "we used to regard him as a bounder. Do they do it now?" "Yes, always. Can you do anything else?" "The usual things--Lancers and polka. Danced a reel once in Scotland." "Nobody dances the polka now, and I hate the Lancers. Can you two-step?" "Never even heard of it." Miss Gaymer sighed. "Never heard of the Boston, I suppose?" she said resignedly. "Never in my life," said Hughie. "Look here," he added, inspired by a sudden hope, "perhaps it would be as well if I stayed at home on Tuesday night--eh?" "_Quite_ as well," said Miss Gaymer candidly. "But I don't suppose Mildred will let you off. You'll be wanted by the wallflowers." "But not by Joey, apparently." "I don't dance with rotters," said Miss Gaymer elegantly. "I am practically booked up already, too. However, if you apply at once I might give you _one_." She thought for a moment. "I'll try you with number eight." "We had better not settle at present," said Hughie. "I should like to have a look round the ballroom before I tie myself down in any way. But I'll bear your application in mind."