His Grace the Duke of Chillington and Lady Alicia Slate-Gore have arrived. The rooms begin to look gay and very full. His Grace a--well-preserved gentleman, of unknown age--adjusts his glass more carefully in his right eye, and coining over, requests from me the pleasure of the first quadrille. I accept, and begin to regard myself as an important personage. I glance at myself in one of the long mirrors that line the walls, and seeing therein a slender figure, robed in velvet and literally flashing with diamonds, I appear good in my eyes, and feel a self-satisfied smirk stealing over my countenance. I am dimly conscious that darling mother is sitting on a sofa somewhat distant from me, looking as pretty as possible and absolutely flushed with pride and pleasure as she beholds me and my illustrious partner. Dora, a little further down, is positively delicious in white silk and pink coral--the coral being mine. Her still entertaining for me the old grudge does not prevent her borrowing of me freely such things as she deems may suit her child-like beauty; while I, unable to divest myself of the idea that in some way I have wronged her, and that but for me all these things she borrows would by right be hers, lend to her lavishly from all that I possess. To-night, however, in spite of the bewitching simplicity of her appearance, I feel no jealous pangs. "For this night only," I will consider myself as charming as Dora. "Rather think it will be a severe season. You hunt?" asks his Grace, in rather high, jerky tones, having come to the conclusion, I presume, that he ought to say something. I answer him to the intent that I do not; that in fact--lowering to my pride as it may be to confess it--I would rather be afraid to do so. He regards me with much interest and approval. "Quite right; quite right," he says. "Ladies are--ha--charming you know, of course, and that--but in a hunting-field--a mistake." I laugh, and suggest amiably he is not over-gallant. "No--no? really! Have I said anything rude? Can't apply to you, you know, Mrs. Carrington, as you say you have no ambition to be in at the death. Women, as a rule, never _are_, you know; they are generally in a drain by that time; and if a man sees them, unless he wants to be considered a brute for life, he must stop and pull 'em out It takes nice feelings to do that gracefully, and with a due regard to proper language, in the middle of a good run. Charming girl, Miss Beatoun." "Very." "Pretty girl, too, in white silk and the coral." "You mean my sister?" "Indeed indeed? You must excuse the openness of my observations. I would never have guessed at the relationship. Can't discern the slightest family resemblance."