nothing loth, nor reflects that charming as are those ringlets drooping over the cup, and rosy as are the lips that whisper their soft affirmative, it would be as well that he should distinctly know his own mind as to whether he would like this celestial being to make tea for him during the rest of his life, and whether it would be always as sweet as it is now. For the first time in her experience of a London season Blanche, begins to think it a “stupid ball.” She has not yet been asked to dance; and spoilt by her previous successes, she feels hurt at the neglect. “The best men,” as they are called, have not yet, indeed, arrived--if, as is somewhat uncertain, they will come at all, for they sometimes throw Lady Mount Helicon over; and “Mount” himself is still detained at the “House.” But there are plenty of beardless dandies and gay young guardsmen, who are far more prone to dance; and yet they all seem to keep aloof. To be sure, whenever they _have_ asked her formerly she has always been “engaged”; but she would like to stand up now, even with young Deadlock, if it was only for “the look of the thing.” However, she hangs contentedly on the General’s arm, and “bides her time.” It is not long coming. A tall, good-looking man, with features expressive only of a kind disposition and a general air of self-satisfaction, bows and sidles and screws himself towards Blanche and her chaperon, receiving as his natural homage the smiles of the old ladies on whose toes he is treading, and regardless of the imploring looks of the young ones who hope he is going to ask them to dance. His glossy hair is curled distinctly in five rows, which, according to Lord Mount Helicon’s account, betokens weighty intentions; and it is no other than our friend Captain Lacquers, who has dined temperately, abjured his usual cigar, and come here for the especial purpose of meeting Miss Kettering. A bow, an indistinct murmur about “not engaged,” and “honour,” and “delighted,” and the couple are off, tripping gracefully round amongst the whirling confusion of the _Valse des Fantassins_, truly “a mighty maze, but not without a plan.” To explain the intentions of our rotatory hussar, we must take the liberty of putting the clock back a few hours--an impossibility only permitted to the novelist--and record a conversation which took place between Lacquers and his friend Sir Ascot that very afternoon, in a secluded window of the Godiva Club.