"I did," confesses Miss Broughton, with a blush. "I enjoyed myself more than I can say. I do not think I ever enjoyed myself so much in all my life. I forgot everything for the time being, and was quite happy. To me the flowers, the lights, the music, the pretty dresses,--everything,--were new and fresh, and helped to take me out of myself. And then, everybody was so kind, and Mr. Kennedy----" "Who was he?" asks Clarissa, interested at once. "A tall thin dark man, in the Guards,--the Coldstreams or the Grenadiers, I quite forget which. He talked to me all the evening; and, indeed, so did Sir John, Lady Lincoln's son; but I liked Mr. Kennedy best." "Poor Sir John!" "Oh, no. Of course he cared nothing. When I left, Mr. Kennedy, and Sir John, and Aunt Elizabeth's maid, walked home with me; and I think they were cross,--the men, I mean. When I got home I found one of my gloves was missing, and Aunt Elizabeth said I was very careless; and then she asked me where was the crimson rose I had on my bosom when starting, and, you see,"--apologetically,--"I had given it to Mr. Kennedy, because he asked me for it; but when I told her so, she said I was very forward! Did you ever hear such a word?" says Miss Broughton, tears of indignation in her eyes. "Was it forward to give a dead rose to a man who had been very kind to me for a whole evening?" "Certainly not," says Clarissa, emphatically. "I would give a rose to any one who was kind to me,--if they asked for it. Did you ever see Mr Kennedy again?" "Yes; he called next day, to return me my glove, which, he declared, he had kept by mistake. But somehow I never got that glove again, so I suppose he took it away with him when he left." "I suppose so. Well, I shall write to Dorian for your ticket." "Perhaps 'Dorian' will think me a great bother." "Let him," says Clarissa, impatiently: as yet she has not forgiven him that speech (so much mistaken) at the concert. * * * * * The 5th has arrived. The day has dawned, lived, grown to its full size, and then sunk, as we all must, into the arms of Death. The night has come, with sound of music and breath of dying flowers, and the drip, drip of the softly-flowing fountains. The rooms are looking lovely; fair faces smile, and soft eyes gleam; and figures, round and _svelte_ as Venus's own, sway with the music and mingle with the throng. The ball is at its height, when Clarissa, seeing Dorian, beckons to him with her fan. It is a very slight invitation to her side, but one instantly obeyed. "Keep one dance for a friend of mine," she says, earnestly. "Let me keep one dance for you." "That, too, if you wish it; but I have a little friend here to-night, and she knows nobody, and, though I know you won't like it" (calling to mind again his supposed disparaging tone at the concert), "still, for my sake, be kind to her." "I shall be nectar to her, if you entreat me in that fashion. Who is she?"