Edward was standing later in the evening gazing on the pretty scene musingly. The large drawing-room was brilliantly lighted. The huge, candelabras, with their crystal pendants cunningly cut, broke and reflected the soft lights of tapers of purest wax. The mirrors, posed with art, reflected the shifting scene. There was the soft frou-frou of sweeping trains, the low hum of broken converse, the rippling music of maiden voices, and the dreamy strains of a Danubian waltz. Edward, though dancing sufficiently well, well enough, as he thought, for a man, was no votary of the graceful art; the party, happily, was a well-balanced one—there was no need for him to dance from mere complaisance. His mind carried him to a festive gathering he had recently attended in Yorkshire. The son of an acquaintance and client—a large manufacturer—had come of age and a treat was given to the millhands. After their own repast in the house the guests of the millowner had adjourned willingly enough to the vast weaving shed in which the “hands” held their revel. The bare, whitewashed walls had been hung with gay festoons and appropriate devices. The Linthwaite Brass Band, victor in historic contests, discoursed sweet music. The employees danced not ungracefully. Instead of languourous movement, swimming smoothly to a dying strain, there was the grigging romp of lusty lads and lasses. The couples in the quadrilles had no sort of notion of the challenge, the equivoque, the alluring and the feigned retreat the movements symbolise. But the music caught their feet, the unwonted excitement stirred their young blood, and their cheeks mantled and eyes glowed with the unrestrained and undisguised rapture of the fleeting hour. There was the rude and rustic humour of the looms, the lively sally, the broad retort, and the ringing laugh. Was it not as good in its way, mused Edward, as the veiled innuendo, the sneer in silky tones, the languid smile of an earl’s drawing-room—and was not that way a better way? “Are you so soon tired of dancing—shall I find you a partner?” asked a voice at his elbow, as Edward started out of his reverie and came back from the weaving shed to the gilded saloon. He did not know the young man who had addressed him, a youth of medium height, with features none too classical, but with a smooth and lofty brow, dreamy eyes, a nascent moustache of brown down upon the upper lip. The complexion was pale to pallor, the small white hand that caressed the lips’ adorning was thin and delicate, the figure frail and almost effeminate. “You don’t know me, Mr. Beaumont. I didn’t get the chance of an introduction before dinner. I took in Miss St. Clair—stunning creature, isn’t she?—and she told me all about you. If you aren’t dancing for a while let us slip off to my den and have a cigarette. I’m Lindsay, Lord Lindsay, you know.” Then Beaumont knew he was speaking to the heir of the house.