He says this so emphatically that I understand him to mean he considers me far inferior to Dora. I begin to think his Grace an obtuse and undesirable person, sadly wanting in discrimination. No doubt he is thinking my plainness only to be equalled by my dullness. I wish impatiently the quadrille would begin and get itself over, that I may be rid of him, more especially as I am longing with a keenness that belongs alone to youth, for a waltz or a galop, or anything fast and inspiriting. At last the band strikes up and we take our places. Marmaduke (who is dancing with Lady Alicia Slate-Gore) and I are the only untitled people in the set. Nevertheless, as I look at my husband I think to myself, with a certain satisfaction, that not one among us has an appearance so handsome or so distinguished as his. The quadrille being at an end, Sir Mark Gore instantly claims me for the coming waltz, and, as I place my hand very willingly upon his arm, whispers:--- "You are like an old picture. I cannot take my eyes off you. Who told you to dress yourself like that?" "Myself. Is it not nice?" I ask, eagerly, casting another surreptitious glance at my youthful form as we move near a glass. "Don't you think it becoming?" "If I told you all I thought," he exclaims, eagerly then, checking himself with an effort, and a rather forced laugh, continues--"you might perhaps read me a lecture." "Not I: I am not in the mood for lectures. I feel half intoxicated with excitement and pleasure, as though nothing could have power to annoy or vex me to-night. The very music thrills me." "You remind me of Browning's little lady,--- 'She was the smallest lady alive: Made in a piece of nature's madness. _Too_ small almost for the life and gladness That over-filled her.' You remember her?" "Am I the 'smallest lady alive?' Why, see, I am quite up to your shoulder. You insult me, sir. Come, dance, _dance_, or I will never forgive you." He passes his arm round my waist, and in another moment we are waltzing. Did I ever dance before, I wonder? Or is this some new sensation? I hardly touch the ground; my heart--my very pulses--beat in unison with the perfect music. I stop, breathless, flushed, radiant, and glance up at Sir Mark, with parted, smiling lips, as though eager to hear him say how delightful he too has found it. He is a little pale, I fancy, and answers my smile rather slowly. "Yes, it has been _more_ than pleasant," he says, divining and answering my thought. He is not enthusiastic; and I am dissatisfied. "You don't _look_" I say with inquisitive reproach, "as though you enjoyed it one bit." A curious smile passes over Sir Mark's face. "Don't I?" he replies, quietly. "No. Decidedly the reverse even. Of _course_"--with a considerable amount of pique--"You could have found plenty of better dancers among the people here."