When Lucinda Mandeville arrived at her own house, and found herself alone in her dressing-room, all the smothered emotions of the evening burst forth without restraint, and leaning her head on the arm of the sofa, she indulged in a long fit of tears before she proceeded to take off her ornaments. But when she went to her psyche for that purpose, she could not help feeling that hers was not a face and figure to be seen with indifference, and that in all probability the unguarded warmth with which Fitzsimmons had replied to her mock courtship, was only the genuine ebullition of a sincere and ardent passion. It was long before she could compose herself to sleep, and her dreams were entirely of the ball and of Fitzsimmons. When she arose next morning, she determined to remain all day up stairs, and to see no visiters; rejoicing that the fatigue of the preceding evening would probably keep most of her friends at home. About noon, Gordon Fitzsimmons, who had counted the moments till then, sent up his card with a pencilled request to see Miss Mandeville. Terrified, agitated, and feeling as if she never again could raise her eyes to his face, or open her lips in his presence, Lucinda's first thought was to reply that she was indisposed, but she checked herself from sending him such a message, first, because it was not exactly the truth, and secondly, lest he should suppose that the cause of her illness might have some reference to himself. She therefore desired the servant simply to tell Mr. Fitzsimmons that Miss Mandeville could receive no visiters that day. But Fitzsimmons was not now to be put off. He had been shown into one of the parlours, and going to the writing-case on the centre-table, he took a sheet of paper, and addressed to her an epistle expressing in the most ardent terms his admiration and his love, and concluding with the hope that she would grant him an interview. There was not, of course, the slightest allusion to the events of the preceding evening. The letter was conceived with as much delicacy as warmth, and highly elevated the writer in the opinion of the reader. Still, she hesitated whether to see him or not. Her heart said yes--but her pride said no. And at length she most heroically determined to send him a written refusal, not only of the interview but of himself, that in case he should have dared to presume that the unfortunate scene at the ball could possibly have meant anything more than a jest, so preposterous an idea might be banished from his mind for ever.