Canon Spratte looked round the ball-room and caught sight of Gwendolen Durant. He went up to her at once. She looked uncommonly well in her low-necked dress; and the single string of pearls she wore not only showed off the youthful beauty of her neck, but reminded the world at large that she had a very opulent father. “How is it the young men are so ungallant as to leave you sitting out?” he asked, gaily. “I’m engaged to your son for this dance; I can’t make out where he is.” “Lionel is a donkey,” laughed the Canon. “Give it to me instead.” He would not listen to her amused objections, and in a moment they were among the dancers. Lionel came up just as Canon Spratte had borne off the prize triumphantly. He was filled with amazement, for to the best of his belief his father had not danced for twenty years. The Canon saw him, and laughing at his disconsolate look, pointed him out to Gwendolen. She laughed also. “I’ve cut you out, dear boy,” cried the Canon as they passed, with a roguish look. “I’ve cut you out.” “You’re very unkind,” smiled Gwendolen. “Nonsense. It’ll teach him to be more punctual. Do you think if I’d been engaged to the belle of the evening I should have kept her waiting one single moment?” He was so good looking, and there was about him such a buoyant charm of manner that Gwendolen was somewhat dazzled. The Canon had a great sense of rhythm, and their waltz went exceedingly well. “You dance better than Lionel,” she said, smiling. He pressed her hand slightly in acknowledgment of the flattering remark, and his glance positively made her heart beat a little. “You mustn’t think because my hair is nearly white that I’m quite an old fossil.” Gwendolen looked at his hair and thought it very handsome. She was pleased with the admiration that filled his eyes when they caught hers. She blushed, and they danced for a while in silence. “I enjoyed that more than any dance this evening,” she sighed, when the music ceased. “Then you must give me another. I owe you a debt of gratitude. You’ve made me feel four-and-twenty.” “I don’t believe you’re a day more,” she answered, reddening at her boldness. Like many young persons before her Gwendolen felt that a week’s acquaintance with Theodore Spratte had turned him into an old friend. She would have confided to him her most treasured secrets without hesitation. He took her to have an ice, and she observed with pleasure the courtliness with which he used her. It seemed more than politeness which made him so anxious for her comfort. Her wants really seemed to matter to him. “How charmingly you wait on me,” she said, half laughing. “I belong to the old school which put lovely women on a gilded pedestal and worshipped them. Besides, I have to take pains to make you forget my age.” “How can you be so absurd!” she cried. “I think you’re the youngest man I’ve ever known.” He was delighted, for he saw that Gwendolen meant precisely what she said.