Here the sensible reader will naturally ask, “Why did they come?” They came to protest their gentility; their right to be classed among the “county” gentry, and more particularly, Mrs. Finny came, because Maria made her--and Maria came, because the scene gave her food for discourse for the next twelve months. She enjoyed the delights of sitting in Jane Bolland’s back parlour, and vivisecting the present gay and unsuspecting company. The Major was in his element, and in considerable request among luckless elderly spinsters, whom he made happy by his attentions--by giving them one dance, so that they could say, “Oh, dear me, yes, it was a capital floor, I danced of course.” He took starving dowagers into the refreshment room, and quite a convoy of old ladies (of position) down to supper; whilst Mrs. Malone watched her son (her eldest son) with proud and eager eyes, and pointed him out with undisguised triumph to her immediate neighbours: “That’s my son George, coming this way now with Lady Armine Fitzmaurice,” or “that is my eldest son, dancing with Betty Redmond.” It was agreed--even by Maria Finny--that Betty looked well, was one of the prettiest girls in the room--in short that she was a great credit to Ballingoole. She was in enviable request, surrounded by would-be partners, and Fred--who had not been quite certain as to how she would “take”--now pestered her for half the dances on her programme, and advertised his intimacy by calling her “Betty” across a set of lancers. George did not mind _him_, but he was really jealous of Ghosty. An innocent hunting friend had pointed him out to him, as “Booked for pretty Betty Redmond. It was true she had next to no fortune, but the Moores all liked her, and it was a settled thing.” His waltz with Betty came at last; it was only number five, so the evening was not so very far advanced, but for him, it was only just about to begin. “I did not know that the Major danced,” he exclaimed, as he watched his step-father revolving round the room like a big humming-top. “Yes--he is very fond of balls,” replied Betty, “and, until lately, he wore his full dress tunic on every possible occasion, until it was agony to him, and he said he could not put the tip of his finger inside his waist-belt; now he is at a loss to know what to do with his uniform. What can you suggest?” “He might stuff it, and set it up in his study, as an effigy of himself,” returned George shortly. “Our next dance is number twelve, is it not? May I see your card?” “Yes, of course.” “You are dancing the next with Denis. What sort of a performer is he?” “Well,” smiling, “I may tell you in confidence, that Fred Moore says in a small room he is dangerous, but he will have lots of scope here.” “Why do you not give him a square?” expostulated his step-brother. “I offered him a square--I begged of him, almost with tears in my eyes, but he would not hear of it; as it is, he is offended; ‘out’ with me, as they say.”