"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque. Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown displaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her. "Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the basket of flowers. "No, oh! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him for just a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I have carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to the lawn to Lady Swansdown--see; she is quite alone at this moment. You will be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests." "As you will," says Baltimore, coldly. He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left. Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way--she seems, indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With the advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him. "We postponed _one_ game, I think," says she. "Well--shall we play the next?" "I am sorry," says he, deliberately, "but I think not." His eyes are on the ground. "No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance. That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond belief. "You must forgive me," says he, deliberately still. He had sworn to himself that he would not play second fiddle on _this_ occasion at all events, and he holds himself to his word. "But I feel as if I could not play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. Captain Grant is out there, he----" "Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I want one," interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly away. CHAPTER X. "Nature has sometimes made a fool." The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the cornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of them disconsolate.