“Ah, I suppose this little girl is the niece? going to take her preliminary canter?” and with a patronising nod, she passed on to the dressing-room. Letty encountered her aunt’s eye, who, seizing her arm to lead her forward, said: “That is Mrs. Flashman, a wonderful rider, but an odious, detestable creature, who slams gates, jostles you at fences, and swears at her horses, and her servants.” Two minutes later, Miss Glyn found herself with a programme in her hand, standing in the ball-room. This was beautifully decorated, a military band was established in the gallery, and the sides of the room and a sort of platform at the upper end were densely crowded with guests. Others were promenading up and down impatiently awaiting the next waltz. Many neighbours had brought large house-parties, whose smart gowns and splendid jewels, gave an air of London society to the Brakesley Hunt Ball. Mrs. Fenchurch paced slowly towards the dais. On her way, she encountered several acquaintances, and introduced her niece to Lord Seafield--a thin young man with a very prominent nose and no chin--to Sir Edgar Broome, the M.F.H., and to the Dowager Duchess of Campshire. Before ascending the platform, she was accosted by Lancelot Lumley, who came forward eagerly, programme in hand, and said: “I hope Miss Glyn can spare me a couple of waltzes?” Miss Glyn promptly produced her programme, and he scribbled his initials before three. The next, which was just beginning, the one before supper, and number twelve. Mrs. Fenchurch looked on with glum disapproval. _Three_ dances to an impecunious subaltern! But she could not offer any audible objection, and as the band struck up he said: “Shall we make a start now before the room gets crammed?” and light as a feather the young lady was whirled away, and the elder was compelled to mount to the platform alone. But from this and other coigns of vantage, the extraordinary beauty of Miss Glyn was soon remarked. Indeed, her own chaperon, as she surveyed her through her best gold glasses, assured herself, that she had never until now realised the girl’s astonishing good looks! Of course dress went a long way, so did youth--and candle-light; but Letty’s profile was perfect, her complexion, the shape of her face, the setting on of her head, were beyond criticism--and then her grace! As Dorothy Fenchurch watched the white form revolving round and round, she began to experience an intoxicating sensation; the stimulating conviction was borne in upon her, that she had a valuable prize to offer in the marriage market! Seen just at home, running about in her school frocks and garden apron, Letty was merely a pretty girl, with lots of hair, and a good complexion; here, in the midst of the magnates of the land, she was the beauty of the evening! People--her neighbours--gathered about Mrs. Fenchurch and began to talk, discussing local news, the recent weather, the various notable magnates who had honoured the ball.