Clarissa has been claimed by Horace Branscombe, and has disappeared. Dorian, coming to the front, goes up to the little beauty in black and silver, and says, in a contrite tone,-- "I am so sorry I can't write; yet nevertheless _I_ am John Barleycorn, and this dance belongs to me." "Why, so it does," says Georgie, recognizing him in a naïve manner, and placing her hand upon his arm. She performs this last act slowly and with hesitation, as though not entirely sure of his identity, which has the effect of piquing him, and therefore heightening his admiration for her. "You have forgotten me," he says, reproachfully. "Oh, no,"--slowly. "It was with you I danced the last waltz, I think." "No. The last polka." He is even more piqued now. "It has slipped your memory; yet there are some things one never forgets." "Yes," says Miss Broughton, with a suppressed sigh; "but those are unhappy things. Why think of them now? Let us dance again, and forget while we can." "You mistake me," says Dorian, hastily. "I thought of nothing unhappy. I thought of you. I shall never forget this night." "Ah, neither shall I!" says Miss Broughton, very earnestly indeed. By an artificial observer, it might be thought somewhat sentimentally. "Do you mean that?" says Dorian, hopefully, if curiously. "Am I to understand you mean to keep this particular ball forever in mind?" "You may, indeed." "But why?"--with much animation, and an over-increasing show of hope. "Because it is my first," says Miss Broughton, confidentially, with a little quick-drawn sigh of utter content, and a soft, if rather too general, smile. "I see,"--disappointedly. "Is that your reason? What a curious one!" "You think it ridiculous, don't you?" says Georgie, faintly, ashamed of herself; "but it is quite true, and I can't help it. I was eighteen last month, and never before was I at any ball. I shall never forget this room,--I know that,--or the lights, or the flowers, or the man over there beating time for the band, or--or anything." "I think 'the man over there' has much the best of it," says Dorian. "I wish I was the leader of that band. Is there any chance that your partners of this evening will be remembered by you?" "Well, I suppose I sha'n't quite forget you," says Georgie, seriously, after a moment's careful reflection. "I'll take jolly good care you don't," says Mr. Branscombe, rather losing his head, because of her intense calmness, and speaking with more emphasis than as a rule belongs to him. "You are staying at the vicarage aren't you?" "Yes," says Georgie. "And I live just three miles from that----." Here he pauses, as though afraid to make his insinuation too plain. "At Sartoris, isn't it?" asks Georgie, sweetly. "Yes? Clarissa showed me the entrance-gate to it last week. It looks pretty."