The great day of the Drawing-room came and went, as do all days, great or small. But whether she had been a success or a failure, in her aunt's sense of the words, May had not the remotest idea. Indeed, the various feelings on the subject of her presentation which had filled her breast beforehand (including a genuine delight in her own appearance as she stood before the big looking-glass, while Smithson put the finishing touches to her head-dress), were all swallowed up in the supreme feeling of thankfulness that it was over; and that she had not disgraced herself by tumbling over her train, or otherwise shocking the eyes of august personages. Also, in a minor degree, she was thankful that Aunt Pauline's antique lace-flounce--a portion of the dowager's legacy lent for the occasion--had escaped destruction. On their drive homeward, she sat silent, trying to extricate some definite image from her confused impressions of the ceremony, and finding that her most distinct recollection recorded the pressure of a persistent and ruthless elbow against her ribs. Mrs. Dormer-Smith, too, was too much exhausted to say much. She leaned back in the carriage with closed eyes, wrapping her furs round her, and sniffing at a bottle of salts. But when refreshed by a glass of wine, and seated in a well-cushioned chair before a blazing fire, Mrs. Dormer-Smith felt very well satisfied with the result of the day. Mrs. Griffin had been there, and had nodded approvingly across a struggling crowd of bare shoulders; and Mrs. Griffin's approbation was worth having. Mr. Dormer-Smith came home from his club a full hour earlier than usual, in order to hear the report--a proof of interest which May, not being a whist-player, was unable fully to appreciate. "Well," said Pauline, with a kind of pious serenity, "we have accomplished this somewhat trying social duty." "Trying, indeed," exclaimed May. "I'm afraid you are dreadfully tired, Aunt Pauline. And the crowd and closeness made your head ache, I saw. How is your head now?" "It is better, dear, much better." "Well?" said Mr. Dormer-Smith, looking interrogatively with raised eyebrows at his wife. "Oh yes, Frederick; very nice indeed, very satisfactory. I was very much pleased. I _had_ been a little anxious about the effect of the _corsage_, but Amélie has done herself great credit. And, mercifully, white suits our dear child to perfection. She really looked very well." "Did I, Aunt Pauline? Well, I'm sure it didn't much matter how I looked." "Didn't matter!" echoed Mrs. Dormer-Smith in a shocked tone. "Oh, come, May!" cried her uncle. "I thought you were above that sort of nonsense. Do you mean to tell me that you don't care about looking pretty?" "Oh no! I mean--well, I did think my dress was lovely when I looked at myself in the big glass upstairs; but in that crush who could see it? And I was awfully afraid that Aunt Pauline's lace flounce would be torn completely off the skirt."