Mr. Hector Anstruthers had been installed, by universal consent, that evening, as a sort of young lion, whose gentlemanly roar was worth hearing. Young ladies had heard of him from their brothers, and one or two had seen those lovely little pictures of his last season. Matrons had heard their husbands mention him as a remarkable young fellow, who had unexpectedly come into a large property, and yet wrote articles for the papers, and painted, when the mood seized him, for dear life. A really extraordinary young man, and very popular among highly desirable people. “Rather reckless,” they would say, “perhaps, and something of a cynic, as these young swells are often apt to be; but, nevertheless, a fine fellow--a fine fellow!” And Anstruthers had condescended to make himself very agreeable to the young ladies to whom he was introduced; had danced a little, had talked with great politeness to the elder matrons, and, in short, had rendered himself extremely popular. Indeed, he was so well employed, that, until the latter part of the evening, Lisbeth saw very little of him. Then he appeared suddenly to remember her existence, and dutifully made his way to her side, to ask for a dance, which invitation being rather indifferently accepted, they walked through a quadrille together. “I hope,” he said, with punctilious politeness, “that the Misses Tregarthyn are well.” “I am sorry to say,” answered Lisbeth, staring at her _vis-à-vis_, “that I don’t know.” “Then I must have mistaken you. I understood you to say that you had just received a letter from Miss Clarissa.” “It was not a mistake,” returned Lisbeth. “I had just received one, but unfortunately they don’t write about themselves. They write about me.” “Which must necessarily render their letters interesting,” said Anstruthers. Lisbeth barely deigned a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Necessarily,” she replied, “if one is so happily disposed as never to become tired of one’s self.” “It would be rank heresy to suppose,” said Anstruthers, “that any of Miss Crespigny’s friends would allow it possible that any one could become tired of Miss Crespigny--even Miss Crespigny herself.” “This is the third figure, I believe,” was Lisbeth’s sole reply, and the music striking up again, they went on with their dancing. “He supposes,” said the young lady, scornfully, to herself, “that he can play the grand seigneur with me as he does with other women. I dare say he is congratulating himself on the prospect of making me feel sorry some day--me! Are men always simpletons? It really seems so. And it is the women whom we may blame for it. Bah! he was a great deal more worthy of respect when he was nothing but a tiresome, amiable young bore. I hate these simpletons who think they have seen the world, and used up their experience.”