A couple of hours later he went to a ball given by his friends, the Hagworth Lewinsons, at their house in Cromwell Road. Mr. Lewin-son had formerly held a position in the Queensland Mint; he was now a member of Parliament, with a specialty in matters concerning currency, his own practical dealings therewith being on a substantial scale. He had one fair daughter and no more; Miss Lewinson was beautiful, and not more insipid than it generally falls to the lot of beautiful girls to be. To this young lady, Vincent Lacour had, a day or two ago, offered himself as a husband. To-night he appeared in the capacity of accepted suitor. Society inspected the two as they stood together, and discussed them with Society’s freedom; a coming marriage is so obviously a fit subject for light and frivolous chat. One circumstance was highly amusing; the bride-elect had a pronounced turn for jealousy, and did not conceal as well as she might have done, her anxiety to keep Sir Vincent well within view. There were not wanting ladies who remarked that Lady Lacour would have a busy time of it. Vincent managed to sit out during one dance in which Miss Lewinson was engaged. He was looking rather absently at the couples when Mrs. Bruce Page placed herself beside him. “Ah, you here?” he exclaimed, with something less than his usual politeness. “Aren’t we going to be friends again?” said the vivacious lady, casting her eyes about her. “I didn’t know we were anything else,” said Lacour drily. “You always take it for granted that you are forgiven. And is this true that I hear?” “You must hear so many things.” “I do,” was the pithy reply. “But of course you know what I mean. When, pray, did you get rid of poor A. W.?” The music was loud, but there were people sitting very near, and Mrs. Bruce Page had a habit of referring to her acquaintances thus cautiously. She allowed herself the solecism, as she allowed herself sundry other freedoms which had got her a worse name than she deserved. “I don’t think we need talk of such things,” said Vincent coolly. “You are abundantly gifted with imagination. It will supply your needs in conversation for the next few days.” “You are monstrously unkind,” she said, in a lower voice, and with a manner which would imply to observers that she was saying the most indifferent things. “If I _liked_ to talk, now--but I won’t betray you. You might tell me all about it in return.” “There is nothing to tell. Engagements are broken off every day.” “True. A pity the practice isn’t more extensive. I suppose she got tired of you? You were too conceited for her?” “We’ll say so,” conceded Vincent, more good-humouredly. “Then it was _her_ doing?” “You are impertinent, but I don’t mind telling you that it was.” “Oh, what a frank boy! There was no reason on your side for--drawing back a little, eh? waiting to see what time would bring, eh?” “Your insinuations are best not understood.”