"I am engaged," said Mrs. Lancaster. "Oh, that makes no difference. You are always engaged; come," he said. "I beg your pardon. It makes a difference in _this_ case," said Keith, coming forward. "I believe this is my turn, Mrs. Lancaster?" Wickersham's glance swept across, but did not rest on him, though it was enough for Keith to meet it for a second, and, without looking, the young man turned lazily away. "Shall we find a seat?" Mrs. Lancaster asked as she took Keith's arm. "Delighted, unless you prefer to dance." "I did not know that dancing was one of your accomplishments," she said as they strolled along. "Maybe, I have acquired several accomplishments that you do not know of. It has been a long time since you knew me," he answered lightly. As they turned, his eyes fell on Wickersham. He was standing where they had left him, his eyes fastened on them malevolently. As Keith looked he started and turned away. Mrs. Lancaster had also seen him. "What is there between you and Ferdy?" she asked. "Nothing." "There must be. Did you ever have a row with him?" "Yes; but that was long ago." "I don't know. He has a good memory. He doesn't like you." She spoke reflectively. "Doesn't he?" laughed Keith. "Well, I must try and sustain it as best I can." "And you don't like him? Few men like him. I wonder why that is?" "And many women?" questioned Keith, as for a moment he recalled Mrs. Wentworth's face when he spoke of him. "Some women," she corrected, with a quick glance at him. She reflected, and then went on: "I think it is partly because he is so bold and partly that he never appears to know any one else. It is the most insidious flattery in the world. I like him because I have known him all my life. I know him perfectly." "Yes?" Keith spoke politely. She read his thought. "You wonder if I really know him? Yes, I do. But, somehow, I cling to those I knew in my girlhood. You don't believe that, but I do." She glanced at him and then looked away. "Yes, I do believe it. Then let's be friends--old friends," said Keith. He held out his hand, and when she took it grasped hers firmly. "Who is here with you to-night?" he asked. "No one. Mr. Lancaster does not care for balls." "Won't you give me the pleasure of seeing you home?" She hesitated for a moment, and then said: "I will drop you at your hotel. It is right on my way home." Just then some one came up and joined the group. "Ah, my dear Mrs. Lancaster! How well you are looking this evening!" The full voice, no less than the words, sounded familiar to Keith, and turning, he recognized the young clergyman whom he had met at Mrs. Wentworth's when he passed through New York some years before. The years had plainly used Mr. Rimmon well. He was dressed in an evening suit with a clerical waistcoat which showed that his plump frame had taken on an extra layer, and a double chin was beginning to rest on his collar. Mrs. Lancaster smiled as she returned his greeting.