When the music for the first dance commenced, General Adair led out Mrs Blake, and almost simultaneously Kathleen and Doreen with their partners, and Lawrence with Eileen followed suit. Paddy, however, waited breathless, to watch her father. “I’m all on thorns,” she explained to her partner. “I simply can’t dance for a minute or two. Daddy’s clothes are too tight for him to laugh in with any safety, so goodness knows what will happen if he dances long!—I must warn him.” She succeeded in getting within earshot, and at a loss for an appropriate warning, remarked in an audible whisper, with feigned anxiety: “Daddy—remember Lot’s wife,” which so tickled the old soldier that he nearly come to grief through her, instead of being saved from it. “How well she looks to-night!” Mrs Blake said warmly, following Paddy with admiring eyes. “You must be very proud of your girls, General. One is beautiful, and the other full of originality and charm.” “I am, Madam,” he said. “I am, indeed. There’s not an officer in the British Army knows less about fear than Paddy—she’d storm any stronghold in the face of any guns, and never turn a hair. If she’d been a man, she’d have written her name in English History. I used to fret about it a little, but Lord! I wouldn’t change her now for all the fame in Europe. I’m thinking there’s just as much need in the world for brave women as brave men, and none too many of them.” “Indeed, you are right, General. Paddy will find her vocation yet, and perhaps write her name in history too.” Meanwhile, Lawrence and Eileen glided round almost in silence. Both were perfect dancers, and content while the music continued to leave all conversation alone. Afterward they rested in a small alcove, and Lawrence took the opportunity to feast his eyes on his partner’s loveliness. “You are looking splendid, Eileen,” he said, with unwonted warmth for him, “that dress suits you perfectly. Did you choose it yourself?” “Yes,” lowering her eyes, that they might not tell too plainly their tale of gladness. He hatched her a moment, thinking of her perfect naturalness, and then across his mind floated the picture and remembrance of Gwendoline Carew. How different they were, these two girls, who, for the present at any rate, held sway in his fickle affections. Against Eileen’s simplicity, he could not help a little inward smile at the thought of Gwendoline’s past-masterdom in the art of attracting, and holding, and queening it generally over the opposite sex. He thought he would like to see them together, and supposing Gwendoline should take it into her head to be jealous, he smiled inwardly at the notion of what her summing up of her rival might be. Then Eileen looked up into his face, and somehow again his defences grew weak.