“I am sorry that I lost my temper--so let us make it up; and as you have bought the white _crêpe_, you shall wear it. The other will come in later,” and having offered, what she considered, a most remarkable concession, Mrs. Fen kissed her niece sharply, and walked downstairs. After she had departed, Letty stood listening to her descending footsteps; somehow her aunt’s footsteps, coming or going, invariably made her heart flutter like that of some terrified animal. When the last sound had died away, she flung herself down upon her bed. She didn’t care about the ball, or the _crêpe_ dress--or anything! She was an interloper; no one wanted her. How bitter it was, to eat bread that was begrudged. In what shape or form could she ever find release? It was agonising to reflect, that she might go on living month after month, and year after year, under the roof of a woman who had called her a pauper, and a burden. CHAPTER IV The great day dawned at last; the day of the Hunt Ball, which took place annually in the Town Hall of Ridgefield, and was attended by everybody who was anyone--and many nobodies. Letty’s white _crêpe_, completed with her assistance, was charming; soft, girlish, and yet distinguished--for her mental eye had copied it from one of the trousseau gowns of a young and royal princess. Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not remarkable for her taste in dress, wore a ginger-coloured velvet, with opal ornaments; but she carried herself with dignity and looked a Claremont, and a personage! Colonel Fenchurch, in his pink coat, black satin breeches, and neat silk stockings, squeezed himself into the brougham, with many compliments for his two companions. The town of Ridgefield was eight miles away, and as the family bowled along the road at a steady pace, the Colonel dozed, his wife meditated with closed eyes; but their niece all the time stared out on the brown hedges and bare ditches, which were illuminated by the flashing carriage lamps. Of what was she thinking? Was it possible that she was wondering if Lancelot Lumley would be at the ball? The Holt party were somewhat late arrivals, and when the carriage drew up under an awning in front of the Town Hall, the first to step out and run the gauntlet of many spectators was Colonel Fenchurch. He had a remarkably well-turned leg, and looked particularly spruce. His wife followed with impressive deliberation, and last of all came the young lady in white. Her appearance was greeted with a loud murmur, as she floated up the steps in the wake of her relations. As they left the cloak-room, Mrs. Fenchurch, who had received many greetings, was confronted with a lady in a superb sable cloak; a handsome woman with flashing black eyes, and wearing in her hair a magnificent diamond ornament. “Oh, Mrs. Fen,” she exclaimed, “how are you? Going strong, eh?” Then her eyes suddenly alighted on Mrs. Fen’s companion, and she gave her a hard, critical stare.