“But surely Mr. Brooke doesn’t countenance anything so frivolous as dancing?” remarked Lady Cynthia. “After the lecture he has just given me on my personal deportment the idea is out of the question.” “Nevertheless I propose to come, Lady Cynthia,” said Brooke quietly. “You must forgive me if I have allowed my feelings to run away with me to-day. And perhaps to-morrow you will allow me to find out if the new image is correct—or a pose also.” “What do you mean?” asked the girl, puzzled. “‘Lady Cynthia Stockdale—possibly the best dancer in London,’” he quoted mockingly; “I forget which of the many papers I saw it in.” “Do you propose to pass judgment on my dancing?” she asked. “If you will be good enough to give me a dance.” For a moment words failed her. The cool, the sublime impertinence of this man literally choked her. Then she nodded briefly. “I’ll give you a dance if you’re there in time. And then you can test for yourself, if you’re capable of testing.” He bowed without a word, and stood watching them as they walked down the lane. “I think, Ada, that he’s the most detestable man I’ve ever met,” remarked Lady Cynthia furiously, as they turned into the main road. And Ada Laverton said nothing, but wondered the more. III She saw him as soon as she got into the ballroom. It was the last day but one of the local cricket week, and the room was crowded. A large number of the men she knew—men she had danced with in London who had come down to play—and within half a minute she was surrounded. It was a chance of getting a dance with her which was not to be missed; in London she generally danced with one or at the most two men for the whole evening—men who were absolutely perfect performers. For dancing was a part of Lady Cynthia’s life—and a big part. The humour of the situation had struck her that day. For this dog-breeding crank to presume to judge her powers of dancing seemed too sublimely funny for annoyance. But he deserved to be taught a very considerable lesson. And she proposed to teach him. After that she proposed to dismiss him completely from her mind. She gave him a cool nod as he came up, and frowned slightly as she noticed the faint glint of laughter in his eyes. Really Mr. Desmond Brooke was a little above himself. So much the worse for him. “I don’t know whether you’ll find one or not,” she remarked carelessly, handing him her programme. He glanced at it without a word, and quietly erased someone’s name. “I’ve made special arrangements with the band for Number 9, Lady Cynthia,” he remarked coolly. “A lot of people will be in at supper then, so we ought to have the floor more to ourselves.” The next instant he had bowed and disappeared, leaving her staring speechlessly at her programme. “A breezy customer,” murmured a man beside her. “Who is he?”