And never did the vainest young girl, in her first season, evince more anxiety about her appearance than did poor Drusilla, who was not vain at all. But then the young wife knew that she would be sure to meet her husband at the minister’s ball, and that her future happiness might depend upon so small a circumstance as the impression she might make there. For once in her innocent life, but for his sake only, she longed for a social triumph. CHAPTER XX. THE AMBASSADRESS’ BALL. I do not question what thou art, Nor what thy life in great or small; Thou art, I know, what all my heart, Must beat or break for. That is all. —OWEN MEREDITH. The front of that handsome house in Cavendish Square, known then as the American Embassy, blazed with light. Not only the street before it, but the cross-streets around the corners were thronged with carriages. Our Ambassadress was giving her first ball of the season and the élite of London were to honor it with their presence. Many another house would have been crowded to suffocation with the company that assembled in this; but here, so spacious were the corridors and staircases, so _very_ spacious the halls and saloons, that the seven hundred fair and noble guests wandered through the decorated and illumined rooms, refreshed by pleasant breezes and inspired by delightful music, and all without the usual accidents of crushed toilets and crossed tempers. In the first reception room, near the entrance door, stood the distinguished ambassador and his accomplished wife receiving their friends with their usual cordiality. The ambassador wore the dress of a plain American citizen; the ambassadress was resplendent in mazarine blue velvet and diamonds. At about half-past ten o’clock General Lyon and his party were announced and entered the first reception room. The General and his nephew wore the stereotyped evening costume of gentlemen—the black dress-coat and black pantaloons and the white vest and white kid gloves. Anna wore a mauve _crêpe_, looped up with white roses; and white roses in her hair and in her bosom, and pearls and amethysts on her neck and arms. Drusilla’s toilette was perfect. It was a full dress of priceless point lace over a pale maize colored silk. In her hair, on her bosom, and looping up her dress, were clusters of snowdrops and crocuses, sprinkled with the dewdrops of fine diamonds. The effect of this simple and elegant toilette was rich, delicate and beautiful beyond comparison. General Lyon and his young friends had to stand a few moments, while a group who had passed in before them paused to pay their respects to the host and hostess.