"Not everybody, aunt!" says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. "There was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. Wasn't it a little strange?" This in a whisper and aside. "Ah! true. You mean Captain Ryecroft?" "Yes." "It was a little strange. I observed it myself. She seemed distant with him, and he with her. Have you any idea of the reason, Nelly?" "Not in the least. Only I fancy something must have come between them." "The usual thing; lover's tiff I suppose. Ah, I've seen a great many of them in my time. How silly men and women are--when they're in love. Are they not, Mr Musgrave?" The curate answers in the affirmative but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself. "Of the two," proceeds the garrulous spinster, "men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!" she exclaims, contradicting herself, "when I think of it, no. I've seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about Beau Brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! Beau Brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! Ha! ha! ha!" There is a _soupcon_ of spleen in the tone of Miss Linton's laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy. "What could be more ridiculous?" she goes on. "When one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. Well;" taking hold of the _cafetiere_, and filling her cup, "it's time for that young lady to be downstairs. If she hasn't been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. Bless me," glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, "it's after eleven, Clarisse," to the _femme de chambre_, still in attendance, "tell Miss Wynn's maid to say to her mistress we're waiting breakfast. _Veet, tray veet_!" she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but Parisian. Off trips the French demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, Miss Wynn's maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. It is the English damsel who delivers it in the vernacular. "Miss Gwen isn't in her room; nor hasn't been all the night long." Miss Linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea fowl's egg, as the maid makes the announcement. Were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete. Dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands: "What do you mean, Gibbons?" Gibbons is the girl's name. "Oh, ma'am! Just what I've said." "Say it again. I can't believe my ears." "That Miss Gwen hasn't slept in her room." "And where has she slept?" "The goodness only knows." "But you ought to know. You're her maid--you undressed her?" "I did not--I am sorry to say," stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused, "very sorry I didn't." "And why didn't you, Gibbons? explain that."