For a moment the girl felt ecstatically happy, inspired by an unreasoning joy and strangely moved and uplifted; but it was Mr. Blagdon who escorted her to have a cup of soup at the buffet before she departed, who stared at her with an expression that frightened her, and who conducted her down to the entrance hall through a long line of spectators. And never had Letty known her aunt to be so gracious, so affectionate, or in such talkative good-humour; she had actually called her ‘darling!’ “I hope you are well wrapped up,” she urged; “take care of your dress, darling.” “And mind _you_ take great care of her,” supplemented Blagdon at the carriage window. He held out his hand to Letty, kept hers an unnecessary length of time, and squeezed it painfully ere he closed the door of the brougham and they drove off. The last object she beheld, thrown into sharp relief by the glaring lamps and red carpet, was his hard, staring brown eyes, his stolid, complacent face, and she sank into her corner with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she would never see him again! She was to hear of him, however! On the way home her aunt loudly sang the praises of Hugo Blagdon, the richest man in the county. He had the most lovely place, and was so popular; he had travelled a great deal, and owned a yacht and a coach, indeed everything--just like a prince in a fairy tale. During all these eulogiums and dazzling descriptions Colonel Fenchurch maintained an unusual silence. “What do you think of him, Letty?” he enquired at last. “He dances well,” she answered carelessly, “though he soon gets out of breath, and has rather an old-fashioned step.” “Well, there is not a woman in this part of the world that isn’t delighted to have him for a partner,” said her aunt, with an air of finality; then, changing the subject, she proceeded to discuss the ball in detail, from the decorations to the soup. Her remarks about the guests--especially girls--were not altogether generous; now that she had, so to speak, her own goods to offer, Mrs. Fenchurch was a merciless critic of the wares of others. “Did you notice Lady Vera, Tom? She’s supposed to be a beauty, a tall, scraggy, spotty creature, with a wreath over her nose?” A pause. “And how _can_ Mrs. Reed allow her daughters to be seen in such filthy frocks!--anything good enough for the country. Those poor Bradfields hardly left their seats--_so_ humiliating for a chaperon to have her charges on hand all the time--what do you say, Tom?” But Tom’s sole reply was a gentle snore. Then, turning to Letty and stroking her arm, her aunt said: