“Oh never mind your father!” broke in Flo, rudely. “You need not be alarmed; Mr. Wynne won’t look at you as long as Madeline is in the room--and perhaps he may not come. Who else are invited--the Sangsters, the Wallers, the Rays?” “All common sort of people,” remarked the grand-daughter of a baron. “Very worthy in their _way_, and well enough for a girls’ school breaking-up; but I should not dream of knowing them at home, or of bowing if I met them anywhere;” and she threw up her chin, and looked about her superciliously. No one combated this dire announcement; they were all a little in awe of Miss De Ville and her ancestors--especially of the one who had fought in Palestine--and they were silent and impressed, being young. At length a word was whispered, which quickly set every tongue wagging. That magic word was “dress.” What were they all going to wear? One lacked new shoes, another gloves; a fan was lent--in prospect--in return for good offices in the hair-dressing line. Amidst this gabble, Isabella’s piercing voice was heard high and shrill above all, describing the body of her new pink dress. Madeline had joined the crowd, looking white and cold--and no wonder. “Keep away your fingers, my dear, if they are sticky,” said Flo; “and, by the way, what are you going to adorn yourself in? Your white dress was taken by the Harpies, as most unsuitable to you now.” “I have nothing but my black cashmere,” she returned, “and this”--holding out a shabby serge sleeve. “They really must give you something!” cried Isabella, impressively, “if only for the look of the thing. For the credit of the establishment, they can’t have you appear like an old rag-picker.” Madeline coloured vividly. “I don’t mind giving you a dress myself, if you will take it.” “Now, I call that a French compliment, Isabella Jones,” remarked Flo, with her usual candour, “and you know it. If Madeline has to wear the old black, so much the worse; but, whatever she wears, she will always look a--_lady_,” accompanying the remark with a glance at Miss Jones that gave it point and significance, and made that young person feel that it would be a pleasure to take the big ink-bottle off the chimney-piece, and fling it at Florence Blewitt’s solid, square-looking head. “You need not trouble about my dress, Flo, nor need I,” said Madeline, trying to find room on the top of the screen for her benumbed fingers. “Miss Selina told me this morning to practise up my dance music. I am to play----” “Oh, what a shame!” chorused half a dozen voices. “Saving the usual piano player, and a guinea--the skinflints!”