‘I am not likely to dance much,’ answered Mrs. Ferrers, with dignity. ‘Indeed, as a clergyman’s wife, I don’t know that I shall dance at all.’ ‘Then you will have to sit with your train coiled round your feet to prevent people walking on it, and that will be worse,’ retorted Daphne. It was a clear cold night, with a brilliant moon—a glorious night for a country drive—frosty, but not severe enough to make the roads slippery; besides, Boiler and Crock were the kind of horses that nobody hesitates to have roughed on occasion. Sir Vernon had decided on escorting his daughters to the ball. It was a sacrifice of his own ease and comfort, but he felt that the occasion required it. ‘I shall stay an hour,’ he said, ‘and then Rodgers can drive me home, and go back to fetch you later. It won’t hurt the horses going over the ground a second time.’ ‘Dear father,’ said Madoline, ‘it is so good of you to go with us.’ And now, after a reviving cup of tea, and careful wrapping in fur-lined cloaks and Shetland shawls, the three ladies and Sir Vernon conveyed themselves into the roomy landau, and were soon bowling along the smooth high-road towards Stratford. What a transformed and glorified place the little town seemed to-night—all lights, and people, and loud and authoritative constabulary! such an array of fiery-eyed carriages, three abreast in the wide street in front of The Red Horse! such a block in the narrower regions about the Town Hall! so much confusion, despite of such loud endeavours to maintain order! It seemed to Daphne as if they were going to sit in the carriage all night, with the humbler townsfolk peering in at them from the pavement, and making critical remarks to each other in painfully distinct voices. ‘Ain’t the fair one pretty?’ ‘The dark one’s the handsomest.’ ‘My eye! look at the old lady’s diamonds.’ ‘That’s Lord Willerby.’ ‘No, it ain’t, stoopid.’ ‘I see the coronet on the kerridge.’ ‘My, what lovely hair she’s got!’ ‘White satin, ain’t it?’ and so on, while cornets and violins sounded in the distance with distracting melody. ‘It’ll be dreadful if we have to sit in the street quite all the evening,’ said Daphne, listening hopelessly to the voice of authority, with its perpetual ‘Move on, coachman.’