The old lady, who bore an absurd resemblance to a black velvet penwiper, enjoyed the ball immensely, and took a number of mental photographs; she also “took the wall” of various obnoxious people who had dared to patronise her in her days of poverty. Her particular satellites, stout widows and anxious-looking spinsters, rallied around her, ardently admiring her toilette, and listened patiently to her boring recollections of the balls she had attended years ago; but, in point of fact, they were more keenly interested in the ball of to-night and their prospects respecting escorts to the supper-table. Much as she was engrossed in herself and her own importance, Miss Parrett could not help noticing that her niece was singled out for special attention by Bertie Woolcock. This, though a genuine satisfaction to her, was no pleasure to her chauffeur, who, from a coign of vantage on the lawn, commanded a capital view of the gay scene--the illuminated room, the constant circulation of black and white, and sometimes coloured, figures. Among these Miss Morven was pre-eminent--the undisputed beauty of the evening--wearing a filmy white gown, with a sparkling ornament glittering in her dark hair; she looked radiantly lovely and radiantly happy, as she floated lightly by. The chauffeur’s watchful eyes noted that she had (quite unnecessarily) bestowed three waltzes on that blundering elephant, Bertie Woolcock; how red and hot he looked--more as if he were threshing than dancing! What would _he_ not give for just a couple of turns with the belle of the ball! The band was “Iffs” and the floor seemed to be ripping! Well, there was nothing for it but to wait as an outsider, and to hold on to his patience with both hands. After the great ball--its glories, shortcomings, surprises, and failures--had died away into a nine days’ wonder, there were several cricket matches, and Ottinge discovered, to its supreme elation, that they had a notable man in Miss Parrett’s chauffeur! (This became evident when the local eleven assembled for their evening practice in the Manor fields.) The fame of Owen’s batting actually brought old Thunder on the scene; for he, too, had been a fine cricketer, long before gout had seized upon him and he had subsided into carpet slippers. “Ottinge _v._ Westmere” was a two days’ match, and the last day at the park included a garden-party, arranged, as Mrs. Woolcock murderously expressed it, “to kill off all the neighbours!” “I say, Miss Morven,” said Bertie Woolcock, greeting her and her father on their very late arrival. “We are catching it hot now, though Ottinge was nearly out at three o’clock; that chauffeur fellow of your aunts’ has made sixty runs for his side. I hope you sympathise with us--we shall lose the match.” “No, no indeed, Ottinge for ever!” she replied. “Where is the chauffeur?” glancing round. “Out in the field now.”