“I--I thought the intense heat--I fancied Ascot--races happening to-morrow, and I’m not feeling very--well,” she faltered lamely. “Oh, bosh! You look as fit as possible. Your reasons are no reasons. I suppose you are cut up about Tony--though why you should be is more than I can say--seeing that you refused him twice.” “On the contrary, I’m delighted at his engagement. Pamela Pace is, as you know, a friend of mine. He promised to bring her to the dance without fail.” “And the dance comes off on Wednesday without fail.” The suggestion of its postponement had been made on Monday--after her return from the farm. “And remember, Madeline, that I shall expect you to stir yourself--look after the decorations, have an eye to the supper-tables, and see that the men do the floors properly, and that there are no old waltzes in the programme. You will have your work cut out, and I mine. It will be the busiest day in your life--one to talk of and look back on when you are a grandmother. It’s not a common event to entertain the Shah-da-shah!” As he said this he jumped up and began to pace the room, rubbing his hands, in an ecstasy of anticipation. On the morning of the ball Mr. West was early about, arranging, ordering, superintending, and sending telegrams. “Here’s a pile,” he suddenly exclaimed at breakfast-time, indicating a heap of letters. “I got these all yesterday from people asking for invitations--invitations for themselves, cousins, aunts, and so on, from folk who wouldn’t know us last season; but it’s my turn now! I’ll have none of them. Whatever else the ball will be, it shall be select,” waving his arm with a gesture that was ludicrous in its pomposity. “By the way, that fellow Wynne--he belongs to my club, you know--and besides that, Bagge and Keepe have given him a brief in a case I’m much concerned in. You remember him, eh?” “Yes, I remember Mr. Wynne,” she answered rather stiffly. “Well, I met him in the street yesterday morning, and asked him for to-morrow. He’s a presentable-looking sort of chap,” nodding rather apologetically at his daughter; “but, would you believe it, he would not come; though I told him it would be something out of the common. And fancy his reason”--pausing dramatically--the little man was still pacing the room--“you will never guess; you will be as astounded as I was. He said his child was ill.” Madeline never raised her eyes, but sat with them fixed upon a certain pattern on the carpet, not looking particularly interested, merely indifferent, white and rigid. “He appeared quite in a fright,” proceeded Mr. West, volubly, “and very much worried and put out. He had a case on in court, and wanted to get away. I had no idea that he was a married man; had you?” Before Mr. Wynne’s wife’s dry lips could frame an appropriate answer to this awkward question, a footman entered with another bundle of notes on a salver, and thus Mr. West’s attention was diverted from his unhappy daughter.