“Ah, why don’t we live in the eighteenth century so that I might fall on my knee and kiss your hand in gratitude for that pretty speech!” The band struck up again, and the Canon, offering his arm, led her back to the ball-room. She was claimed by a young guardsman; and as she swung into the throng the Canon could not help feeling that neither in appearance, height, nor gallantry, had he anything to fear from the comparison. “Upon my soul, I can’t make out why I don’t come to balls oftener,” he murmured. “I had no idea they were so amusing.” Lionel was standing just in front of him, and he slapped him on the back. “Well, my boy, are you enjoying yourself? I hope you bear me no malice because I robbed you of your partner.” “Not at all. I’m not really very fond of dancing.” “Ah, you young men of the present day are so superior. It’s a monstrous thing that when a girl’s pretty feet itch for a varnished floor she should be forced to throw herself into the arms of an old fogey like myself.” “It didn’t look as if Miss Durant needed much compulsion,” returned Lionel, dryly. The Canon laughed boisterously. “Have you declared yourself yet? She’s a very nice girl indeed, and you have my paternal blessing. I think we shall get on capitally together.” “No; I haven’t said anything.” “Well, my boy, why don’t you? It’s your duty to marry and it’s your duty to marry money. You must have a son and you must have something to keep him on. I think you’ll have to hunt a long time before you find any one so likely to provide all that’s necessary as Gwendolen Durant.” “I like her very much,” allowed Lionel, somewhat uncertainly. “Then why don’t you propose to-night? There’s nothing like a dance for that sort of thing. The music and the flowers and the gaiety--it all attunes the mind to amorous affairs.” “That’s all very well, but she makes one rather nervous,” laughed Lionel. “Fiddlesticks! Take her into the conservatory and play with her fan. That will lead you to take her hand. Then put your arm boldly round her waist; and the rest will follow of itself, or you’re no son of mine.” Lionel shrugged his shoulders and smiled without enthusiasm. “I see that Mrs. Fitzherbert is here,” he said, inconsequently. “Is she? I must go and find her. Take my advice, my boy; propose to Gwendolen to-night, and perhaps I’ll pay a bill or two for you in the morning.”