With both expressions she met the open admiration of the gilded youths who thronged round her, amused at their foppery, mocking at their protestations of devotion. Tonight she was dressed neither magnificently nor superbly, but with, what seemed to the women who gazed at her with barely concealed envy, artful simplicity. Her dress was of Indian muslin, priceless for all its simplicity; and she wore glittering in her hair, on her arms, and on her cream-white bosom, pearls, that, in quantity and quality would have made the fortune of any enterprising burglar. By her side stood--for they were moving toward the door, on their way to an exit--an elderly woman, with an expressionless face, simply and plainly dressed. She was generally spoken of as the watch dog; but she scarcely deserved that name, for Lady Bell was quite capable of watching over herself; and Mrs. Fellowes, the widow of the Indian colonel, was too mild to represent any sort of dog whatever. Surrounded by a crowd of devoted courtiers, the great heiress and her companion moved toward the door where the hostess stood receiving the farewells and thanks of her guests; and when one thinks of the many hundred times Lady Merivale had stood by that door, and undergone that terrible ordeal, one is filled with amazement and awe at her courage and physical strength. For forty years she had been standing at doors, receiving and meeting guests; yet she stood tonight as smiling and courageous as ever. At last Lady Bell reached her hostess, and Lady Merivale, tired and done up as she was, gave her special recognition. "Must you go, Lady Bell? Well, good-night. And thank you for making my poor little dance a success. Thank you very much." Lady Bell said nothing, but she smiled "in her old colonial way," as they called it, and threaded through the lane of human beings on the stairs. "Lady Earlsley's carriage!" shouted the footman in the gorgeous Merivale livery, and a little brougham drove up. Lady Bell hated show and magnificence. Her stables and coach-houses were crowded with horses and carriages, her wardrobes filled to repletion with Worth's costumes and Elise's "confections," as bonnets are called now-a-days, but a plain little brougham was her favorite vehicle, and the simplest of costumes pleased her best. All the way down the stairs she had to nod and smile and exchange farewells, and at the bottom, in the hall, on the stone steps themselves, she was surrounded by men eager to secure the privilege of putting her into her little brougham. But she avoided them all, and sprang in as if she had not been dancing for four hours, and throwing herself back into the corner, exclaimed: "Thank goodness, that is over. Poor old Fellowes! you are worn out. Confess it." "I am rather tired, my dear," said Mrs. Fellowes, who had been sitting against a wall all the evening.