By help of the curling tongs and a candle Polly did up her dark hair into little knowing curls that went in and out on her temples and played hide-and-seek around the pretty shells of her pink-and-white ears. Glory was slashing the comb through her golden-red hair by way of preliminary ploughing, when Polly cried: “Stop! Don't touch it any more, for goodness' sake! It's perfect! Look at yourself now.” Glory stood off from the looking glass and looked. “Am I really so nice?” she thought; and then she remembered John Storm again, and had half a mind to tear down her glorious curls and go straight away to bed. She went to the ball instead, and, being there, she forgot all about her misgivings. The light, the colour, the brilliance, the perfume transported her to an enchanted world which she had never entered before. She could not control her delight in it. Everything surprised her, everything delighted her, everything amused her--she was the very soul of girlish joy. The dark-brown spot on her eye shone out with a coquettish light never seen in it until now, and the warble in her voice was like the music of a happy bird. Her high spirits were infectious--her lighthearted gaiety communicated itself to everybody. The men who might not dance with her were smiling at the mere sight of the sunshine in her face, and it was even whispered about that the President of the College of Surgeons, who opened the ball, had said that her proper place was not there--a girl like that young Irish nurse would do honour to a higher assembly. In that enchanted world of music and light and bright and happy faces Glory lost all sense of time; but two hours had passed when Polly Love, whose eyes had turned again and again to the door, tugged at her sleeve and whispered: “They've come at last! There they are--there--directly opposite to us. Keep your next dance, dear. They'll come across presently.” Glory looked where Polly had directed, and, seeing again the face she had seen in the window of the Foreign Office, something remote and elusive once more stirred in her memory. But it was gone in a moment, and she was back in that world of wonders, when a voice which she knew and yet did not know, like a voice that called to her as she was awakening out of a sleep, said: “Glory, don't you remember me? Have you forgotten me, Glory?” It was her friend of the catechism class--her companion of the adventure in the boat. Their hands met in a long hand-clasp with the gallop of feeling that is too swift for thought. “Ah, I thought you would recognise me! How delightful!” said Drake. “And you knew me again?” said Glory. “Instantly--at first sight almost.” “Really! It's strange, though. Such a long, long time--ten years at least! I must have changed since then.” “You have,” said Drake; “you've changed very much.” “Indeed now! Am I really so much changed for all? I've grown older, of course.” “Oh, terribly older,” said Drake.