“_Our_ waltz at last, Miss Dove,” said he, with a captivating grin; “thought you’d forgotten me; quite in despair; waited all the evening.” And he carried her off, amidst a running fire of such complimentary phrases as constituted his usual conversations with the fair, and which they were quite willing to accept at their real value. It needs little knowledge of chemistry to be aware that cold water poured on hot iron generates steam. I think Mr. Sawyer showed his sense in retiring to blow his off, with one or two convivial spirits, who finished the evening in the Honourable Crasher’s rooms on cigars and brandy-and-water; the latter gentleman, who had asked Lady Barbara to dance, and then forgotten all about it, having made an early retreat to those comfortable quarters. Here we may leave these choice spirits to their potations. Mr. Sawyer, as his friends remarked, was noisier that usual, and mixed his glass remarkably strong. He did not feel inclined to go to bed, but was quite determined not to return to the ball. Perhaps, without knowing it, he could not have adopted a more judicious resolution. Cissy looked for him everywhere. She even excused herself from dancing, more than once, in expectation of his return—meaning, however, to pay him off to some purpose when he _did_ come back. But even at the cloak-room door there was no Mr. Sawyer. Bob Blazer got her shawl and Savage called the carriage, and Vainhopes put her into it. Yet Cissy felt out of spirits and out of humour. Though she declared she had never enjoyed a ball so much, her mamma thought she was very silent all the way home; and she took her bedroom candle and retired upstairs the very moment they arrived at the Rectory. It was a “new sensation” to Miss Dove not to have everything entirely her own way. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXV THE RACE WITH many men, and those not the least dashing and brilliant horsemen, courage is apt to be very much a question of caloric: their pluck rises and falls with the thermometer. When the mercury stands at 45 or 50 deg. they negotiate with pleasure the largest and most dangerous of fences; at a few degrees above freezing they are content to seek humbly for the gaps or weak places, and a gate, instead of being jumped, is lifted off its hinges; whilst at 32 deg. the turnpike-road has invincible attractions, and is not to be deserted under any provocation. Granting such meteorological affinities, it is needless to observe that a steeple-chase is usually contested in the bitterest possible weather, with a cutting east wind.