“Which will be of no use,” said Lydia, sternly, “without a dress for my mother too.” At this Mrs. Joscelyn was ready to cry, not knowing what else to do. Her hands stole towards each other with the nervous gesture of old, when Brotherton again whispered in her ear a message of hope. “My mother is coming--leave it to me,” he said. She had almost thrown her arms round his neck in her intense relief and thankfulness. And this was how it was that Lydia Joscelyn made such a sensation at the ball. Had she gone with the Selbys, all would have happened precisely as she predicted. She would have stood among them, in a white gown bought at Carlisle, at the bottom of the room, surrounded by a little crowd of other obscure young ladies, left out in the cold, tremulously eager to secure partners, and taken notice of by nobody. There she would have stayed, pretending to be amused, till old Mrs. Selby gave the signal, and gathered her little flock around her, tired with standing, sick with waiting, cross, and humiliated and mortified, consoled only by the thought that the ball at the Castle would be a thing to talk of long after people had forgotten to ask, “Did you dance much?” But for Lydia was reserved a more splendid fate. She had a dress which everybody at the White House thought would have been fit for a princess, and she went with Lady Brotherton, with whom she stayed at the Wyburgh Hotel afterwards, and whose presence introduced her into the selectest circle, and the company of all the first people. Lady Althea went so far as to admire her dress, and Lord Eldred danced with her so often that his mother was alarmed, but yet could not do anything but smile upon the stranger whom Lady Brotherton patronised and introduced as “my young cousin.” Lady Brotherton was a fanciful and romantic woman, and she seized at once upon the idea that Lydia was the object of a romantic attachment on the part of Lord Eldred. Perhaps had she known that her own son was in any danger from the same quarter, it might have checked her enthusiasm. But Lionel did not feel bound in honour to give her any information on that point. She was seized with an enthusiastic friendship for Liddy before they had been half an hour together, and as she was a graceful, sentimental woman, with very tender and engaging manners, Lydia was not wanting in her response. Then Sir John, who was much older than his wife, added his contribution to the rising warmth of the relationship by vowing continually that this was the Cousin Lydia of his youth over again. The fact was that he had seen his cousin Lydia only once or twice in her youth, but he was old enough to have forgotten that, and nobody knew it was a mistake. So all things concurred in the growth of this sudden devotion, and before Lydia returned to her mother she was invited to accompany the Brothertons abroad, and had become, so to speak, one of the family.