But the first polka was over, and a _valse à deux temps_ followed it, neither of which Alice danced, and still no Harry, no Lord Alfred appeared; and in despair she was obliged to say Yes to a heavy cornet in the Life-Guards, who was big enough to eat her, and polked like a polite young elephant. Glad to escape without being squeezed to death or trampled under foot by this ponderous young warrior, Alice had just found a seat, when D’Almayne and Lord Alfred lounged in; the latter immediately joined her, and claimed her promise to dance with him; but Alice was tired and bored, and feeling that it was in some degree owing to him that she had become so, and that he ought to have been there sooner, she replied coldly-- “I promised to reserve the first dance for you, my lord, but the first dance has been over some time, and several others have followed; I do not feel disposed to dance at present.” Of course, Lord Alfred endeavoured to excuse himself, and when Alice declined dancing, said, “Very well, then he should sit still too--all the night, if she pleased, for he certainly should not dance with any one else.” So, after she had teased him until he very nearly lost the little good temper which the events of the earlier part of the evening had left him, she took compassion on him, and danced with him twice consecutively; but when he urged her to do so a third time, she refused; and on his pressing her, told him plainly, that as her husband was away she felt bound to be more than usually particular, and that it was not _étiquette_ to dance the whole evening with one gentleman; at which rebuff his lordship was pleased to take offence, and leading her to a seat, he bowed and left her. Deserted by his lady-love, and swindled out of his money by his pseudo-friends, this victimised young nobleman looked about for his protector and adviser--at once patron and parasite--Horace D’Almayne, but for some time without success; when at length he did discover him, he was engaged in such an earnest private conversation with some gentleman unknown, that Lord Alfred felt it would be ill-bred to interrupt them; accordingly, he lounged through the rooms, resisting several introductions to “great heiresses” and “loveliest girls in London,” all declared to be dying to dance with him, wandered listlessly into the refreshment-room, drank a tumbler of Champagne and sodawater, and was thinking seriously of turning sulky and going home to bed, when D’Almayne seized him by the arm, exclaiming-- “Alfred, _mon cher_, where have you hidden yourself? I’ve been hunting for you for the last half hour. Why have you left _la belle_ Coverdale?” “Oh, yes! that is good! looking for me, indeed, when I passed you twice close enough almost to brush against your elbow, and you never even saw me, so engrossed were you plotting treason with some party unknown,” was the captious reply.