Richard, helplessly obedient to his august relative’s commands, walked a minuet with Miss Julia Perkaby, while Mr. Lot glared at him from a corner, and Miss Hardacre chatted to young Bilson, a spotty youth who was about to take up a commission in the Foot Guards. Miss Sugg’s bony fingers tinkled rapidly over the notes, while Richard, hot and ill at ease, performed with the black-eyed and stately Julia, catching every now and again his cousin Lot’s sulky stare and a glimpse of Miss Jilian’s haughty face. More minuets and country-dances followed. Youth tripped it under the painted roof, curls jigged, fans flickered. The evening was well advanced before Richard found himself seated once again beside Miss Jilian on the causeuse by the wall. He did not find Miss Hardacre in the most angelic of tempers. In truth, she tilted her chin at Mr. Richard, played restlessly with her fan, and appeared most relentlessly chilling. Jeffray, though he was ignorant of the Lady Letitia’s treachery, yet felt that the evening had been miserably mismanaged. There stood Cousin Lot looking as surly and as savage as an unpaid creditor, while fat Sir Peter glowered over his cards at Mrs. Bilson’s funereal face. Miss Hardacre herself appeared clouded by the prevailing sulkiness, though there was an unpleasant glint in her sweet, gray eyes. “La, Richard,” she yawned, “you are not coming to sit by your cousin, surely? How hot the room is! I am sure it must be nearly time for us to go.” Miss Hardacre was plying her fan with rapid jerks, and staring contemptuously the while at the dark-eyed Miss Perkaby, who was smiling at Richard across the room. “I hope you are not tired, Jilian?” “Tired! I suppose I look a poor washed-out thing! I have nerves, sir, and a delicate body. It is those heavy women who can foot it till cock-crow. Miss Perkaby dances well, eh, cousin?” Richard blushed. “Does she?” he asked, helplessly, beginning to suspect what had angered this angel of a woman. “Your dear aunt, sir, hinted that I am getting too old to dance.” “You—too old—to dance?” “Yes. And did you notice, Richard, that I was sent down to supper with Dr. Sugg? So you read your poetry to Mary Sugg, cousin, eh? And write verses about Miss Julia Perkaby? Heavens, how hot the room is! I wish the butler would announce our coach.” Richard, pitifully bewildered, stared at Miss Jilian, and felt that the room was certainly overheated. “I have never read my poems to Mary Sugg,” he began. Miss Jilian’s lip curled. “She thinks them equal to Spenser’s, cousin.” “What! Did she tell you so?” “Oh, dear, no; she is not so innocent.” Richard, very flushed and unhappy, began to suspect the Lady Letitia of mendacity. Mary Sugg had never seen his verses. And the dowager had talked for some time to Jilian, perhaps poisoning the girl’s mind. “My dear cousin—” he began. “Won’t you go and talk to Miss Perkaby, Richard? I am such a dull creature. Heavens! what is the matter with Sir Peter, yonder?”