"Who is Dorian?" asks Georgie, idly. Literally, she cares nothing about him, regarding him in this instance as merely a means to an end,--a person who can obtain for her an entrance into a desired haven. She has, indeed, forgotten that once before she asked this same question and received her answer. "Why, I told you," says Clarissa. "He is Lord Sartoris's nephew,--the tall handsome young man who spoke to me at the concert." "I didn't see him. When is this ball to be?" "On the 5th. And now, about your dresses?" "Mine goes without telling," says Cissy, in a resigned tone. "The whole county knows it by heart by this time. After all, there is a sort of comfort in everything, even in one's misfortune. Now, all _my_ young men won't have the trouble of looking for me, they will know me directly, the instant their eyes light upon my gown, which is fast becoming an heirloom." "If it is the gown you wore the other night at the Bellews', you look very sweet in it," says Clarissa, looking very sweet herself as she utters this comforting speech. "You are an angel, you know," says Cissy, with a merry little laugh. "You see everybody through rose-colored spectacles." "Isn't she rude?" says Clarissa. "One would think I was an old fogy of ninety-five. Spectacles, indeed!" "I must run," says Miss Cissy. "I entirely forgot all about the dinner, and mamma left it to me, as she had to go and see old Mrs. Martin. Good-bye, dear, _dearest_ Clarissa. How I wish I could go with you to this lovely ball!" "Never mind; people always meet," says Clarissa, consolingly. "Yes,--at Philippi," returns the irrepressible, and, with a faint grimace, she vanishes. Georgie walks as far as the entrance-gate with Clarissa. When there, she looks at the iron bars wistfully, and then says, in her pretty childish way, "Let me go a little way with you, Clarissa, will you?" Miss Peyton, who is walking, is delighted. "As far as ever you will. Indeed, I want to speak to you. What--what is your dress like, Georgie?" Georgie hesitates. Clarissa, misunderstanding her silence, says, gently, "Let me give you one, dearest?" "Oh, no, no," says Miss Broughton, quickly. "I have one,--I have, indeed; and it is rather pretty." "But you told me you had never been at a ball." "Neither have I. The gown I speak of was bought for a musical party. It was given while I was with Aunt Elizabeth." "Who gave it?" "The gown?" "Oh, no,--the party." "Lady Lincoln. She has one son, Sir John, and I think it is he gives the parties. Aunt Elizabeth was so pleased that I was asked that she insisted on my going, though I cried, and prayed hard to be let stay at home. It was only"--dropping her voice, with a heavy sigh--"eleven months after papa had--had left me." "It was cruel to force you to go against your will: but, when you were there, did you enjoy yourself?"