“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Somehow it’s—it’s dangerous ground. You see, to-day a man can say anything—at least, they do. I hate it, but it’s the fashion . . . _anything_. But there’s always a button on the foil. They don’t mean a word of it. If they did . . . Well, I should take the veil. But they don’t. And that’s the saving clause in an odious document. But you’re different. You mean what you say. Your foil hasn’t got any button. And so—it’s dangerous.” Kilmuir digested this, frowning. “In a word,” he said, “I mustn’t make personal remarks?” “That’s right,” said Susan. With a sudden, childish gesture she touched his arm. “You don’t mind my telling you?” she said. The sweet simplicity of heart that prompted gesture and word took Kilmuir by the throat. She was a child—this great lady, an exquisite, unspoiled child. Gentle, fair, wise—smothering up her nature because it was not safe for her nature to be abroad. His impulse was to take her hand and kiss it. He wanted to, immensely. But he mustn’t—because she was a child. In an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, their positions had been reversed. A moment ago he had been sitting at her feet. Now her hand was in his, and she was looking up trustfully into his eyes. She was a child. “No,” he said, “I don’t. In fact, I’m much obliged. Let’s—let’s shake hands, shall we?” They shook hands gravely. Locked together, two couples rocketed out of the ballroom, whirled past Miss Crail and Kilmuir and, as the tune ended, crashed in a heap on a divan. They sorted themselves uproariously. “What about a little courage?” said ‘the Duke,’ drying his neck. “And a mouthful of goose-grease, just to help it down?” “Are you steel so thirsty?” queried his partner. “I am when I look at you,” was the ducal reply. Labotte suspended his handkerchief as a curtain between the two girls, as though to screen the speakers from inconvenient gaze. To do this, he passed his arms upon either side of his partner. The latter, an English girl, sought to duck beneath his sleeve. Instantly he lowered his arm. In a moment the screen was forgotten, and the business became an affray between Gallantry and Virtue. “See, see,” cried Labotte, grinning. “I ’af catched a leedle mouze in a gage. She will get oud, but she does not know ’ow.” The girl slid to the ground, and her captor slid with her. “You see?” he announced. “It ees no good at oll. You are a preesner for life.” The pretty scene concluded with a violent struggle from which the lady emerged with a torn dress—a mishap which occasioned shrieks of laughter and a volley of innuendo. The four departed hilariously in search of champagne. . . . “D’you like all this?” said Nicholas. “I don’t mean the scene we’ve just witnessed, but the manners of which it’s the fruit.” “What d’you think?” said Miss Crail. “I think you hate it. I think you like gaiety, and as this is the only sort going you make the best of it.”