The dinner was good, and Mr. Guyon was gay; but neither succulent dishes nor brilliant sallies had much effect on Robert Streightley. They were scarcely seated before he learned, from a chance observation uttered by Miss Guyon, that she was going to Mrs. Tresillian's ball; and the knowledge that Gordon Frere would probably meet her there--a fact which he divined intuitively--weighed heavily on Streightley's mind. He tried to exert himself to respond to his host; he tried to talk lightly and pleasantly to Kate, who seemed in the highest spirits, but all unsuccessfully. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, he fancied her in Frere's arms being whirled round the room, or listening to his low voice with such a pleased expression on her face as he had seen there that night in the Opera-box. Those bright eyes, that flow of spirits, that general happiness, which even prompted her to be far more agreeable to him and far more recognisant of his presence than she had yet ever deigned to be, were not they all due to the fact that she was going to meet his--well, why not?--his rival? As he was thinking thus the servant entered the room bearing a letter, which Miss Guyon read, opened, and flung on the table with an air of vexation, that contrasted strongly with her recent good-temper. "It's too bad!" she cried in a petulant voice; "too bad and I don't believe a word of it." "What's the matter, Kate, my child!" asked Mr. Guyon in his blandest tones. "After dressing myself, and setting my heart upon it--the last ball of the season too--it's--it's most horribly annoying!" and Miss Guyon bit her lip very hard, and threw back her head to stop her tears. "My dear Kate," said Mr. Guyon, looking like a modern edition of Lucius Junius Brutus, "you seem to forget that, besides your father, there is present a gentleman who--no, pardon me, my dear Streightley, allow me to speak--who should be--hem!--thought of. _What_--if I may again be allowed to put the question,--_what_ is there in that note that can have so very much discomposed you?" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Streightley--I--but it is so annoying! Here's Lady Henmarsh, papa, writes to say she cannot go to Mrs. Tresillian's to-night. She's got one of her headaches--those horrible headaches that I don't believe in one bit--and she knows I was looking forward to her taking me, and that it will be impossible for me to go without her. It _is_ so vexing!" Mr. Guyon was about firing off an elaborate remark; but hearing Streightley commencing to speak, he stopped himself, and waved his hand towards his friend.