Mrs. Holt promptly set the matter before him in three words. It meant that “they had quarrelled.” Mr. Wynne remained at the farmhouse all night, sharing Mrs. Holt’s vigil, and watching every turn, every movement, every breath of the little sleeper as anxiously as she did herself. In the morning there was no positive change one way or another. The pendulum of little Harry’s existence seemed to have paused for a time before it made that one vital movement in the direction of either life or death. A message was despatched to Miss West in these laconic words--“Slept pretty well; much the same.” And Madeline, relieved in her mind, entered on the work of a long and toilsome day. In short, she continued the grand preparations for a ball that they were giving that evening. It was to be the ball of the season. Invitations had been out for four weeks. A native Indian prince, and some of the lesser Royalties had signified their intention of being present. Mr. West looked upon the festivity as the supreme occasion of his life, the summit of his ambition--fully and flawlessly attained--and he was happy. Only, of course, there is a thorn in every rose; in this rose there were two thorns. One--and a very sharp one--the disquieting rumours of financial affairs in Australia, where a great part of his huge income was invested; and the other and lesser thorn--the announcement of Lord Tony’s engagement to an old acquaintance and partner, Miss Pamela Pace. And so his dream of calling Lord Tony by his Christian name, as his son-in-law, was at an end. However, he was resolved to make the most of the delightful present, and to give an entertainment, the fame of which should ring from one end of London to the other. He fully carried out his motto, “money no object.” The floral decorations alone for hall, staircase, ballrooms, and supper-table came to the pretty penny of two thousand pounds. The favourite band of the season was, of course, in attendance. As to the supper, it was to be a banquet, the menu of which would make an epicure green with envy; and Madeline’s dress was to come direct from Doucet, and had been specially designed for the occasion by Mr. West’s commands. With all these splendid preparations in view, it will be easily understood that it was with some trepidation that Madeline asked her father to postpone the ball. She made her request very timidly, with failing heart and faltering lips--indeed, the end of her sentence died away in the air when she beheld the terrible expression on her parent’s face. “Put off the ball!” he roared; “are you mad? You must have a shingle short. Put off the swells, after all the work I’ve had to get them! Put off”--he actually choked over the words--“the Shah-da-shah, when you _know_ there’s not another day in the season! Every night is taken. Why, what do you mean? What’s your reason?” he almost screamed.