reassure her half so much as the jolly faces of the beef-eaters, every one of whom seems to be cut out to exactly the same pattern, and, inexplicable as it may appear, is a living impersonation of Henry VIII.; but she took courage after a time, seeing that nobody was the least frightened except herself, and that young Brosier of the Guards, one of her dancing-partners, and to-day on duty at St. James’s, was swaggering about as much at home as if he had been brought up in the palace instead of his father’s humble-looking parsonage. Blanche would have liked it better, though, had the staircase and corridor been a little more crowded; as it was, she felt too conspicuous, and fancied people looked at her as if they knew she was clutching those two tickets, with her name and her chaperon’s legibly inscribed thereon, for the information of an exalted office-bearer, because this was her first appearance at Court, and she was going _to be presented_. Innocent Blanche! The gentlemen in uniform are busy with their collars (the collar of a uniform is positive strangulation for everything but a _bonâ fide_ soldier), whilst those in civil vestures are absorbed in the contemplation of their own legs, which, in the unusual attire of silk stockings and “shorts,” look worse to the owner than to any one else, and that is saying a good deal. The General is close behind his niece, and struts with an ardour which yesterday’s levee in that same tight coat has been unable to cool. The plot thickens, and they add their tickets to a table already covered by cards inscribed with the names of England’s noblest and fairest, for the information of the grand vizier, and--shall we confess it?--the gentlemen of the press! Lady Mount Helicon bows right and left with stately courtesy: Blanche seizes a moment to arrange her train and a stray curl unobserved; and the General, between gold lace and excitement, breaks out into an obvious perspiration. Blanche’s partners gather round her as they would at a ball, though she scarcely recognises some in their military disguises. And those who have not been introduced whisper to each other, “_That’s_ Miss Kettering,” and depreciate her, and call her “very pretty _for an heiress_.” Captain Lacquers is magnificent; he has exchanged into the “Loyal Hussars,” chiefly on account of the uniform, and thinks that in “hessians” and a “pelisse” he ought not to _be bought_ under half-a-million. He breakfasted with “Uppy” this morning, and rallied that suitor playfully on his advantage in attending the Drawing-room, whereas Sir Ascot was to be on duty, and is even now lost in jack-boots and a helmet, on a pawing black charger, outside. D’Orville is there too, with his stately figure and grave, handsome face. His hussar uniform sits none the worse for those two medals on his breast; and his beauty is none the less commanding for a tinge of brown caught from an Indian sun. He is listening to the General, and bending his winning eyes on Blanche.