The last day of June was also the last day of Mrs. Pomeroy’s absence from London, and it was, moreover, the day fixed for a certain dance which was to stand out from all the other dances of the season. The givers of this dance were parvenus of the most pronounced type, and during the past three seasons, they had paid their way into London society by spending fortunes on the entertainments they gave. This season they had issued cards of invitation, on which each guest was requested to wear mediæval Florentine dress, and it had been whispered abroad that thousands were to be spent in providing such a setting for these costumes as should eclipse anything hitherto seen. Fortunately for the projectors--and nobody knew better than they how absolutely impossible it was to calculate in such a matter--the idea caught society’s fancy; it was taken up with the wild enthusiasm which alternates in the modern mind with blank indifference; and as every one with an invitation had spent some three weeks in ardent consideration of his or her dress for the occasion, that occasion had acquired a fictitious importance of a colossal nature, and was absolutely looked forward to as promising something quite unusual--and equally indefinite--in the way of amusement. The whole thing had evidently been arranged, Mrs. Romayne declared gaily, to give a final touch of triumph to the end of Maud Pomeroy’s visit to her. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon of the day in question, and she and Miss Pomeroy, with Julian as escort, were taking what she described as “a little turn” in the Park when she expressed this opinion. It was a perfect June afternoon, the Park was very full, and all three seemed to be exhilarated either by the sunshine, the movement, or the prospect of the evening. The fortnight’s intimate association with her present companions had apparently had no effect whatever upon Miss Pomeroy’s demure conventionality of manner, but her word was readier than usual, and her expression was brighter; Mrs. Romayne talked and laughed and kept the ball of chatter going; and about Julian’s hilarity there was a touch of excitement which was a characteristic which had grown upon him markedly in the course of the last month. He turned upon his mother, protesting gaily. “That’s much too depressing a point of view,” he said. “It forces on us exactly what we want to forget--that it is the end. Now, I’ve made up my mind to cut the connection between to-night and both yesterday and to-morrow, and enjoy myself tremendously.” “And is ‘cutting the connection’--it sounds as if something might blow up--an indispensable preliminary?” laughed Mrs. Romayne. “Why, of course.” He glanced at Miss Pomeroy as he spoke, and the colour deepened in her cheeks by just a shade as she turned to Mrs. Romayne and said, with one of her little smiles and a rather poor attempt at mock confidence: