“For me?” said Mirabelle in surprise. Joan ran across the room, giving what she deemed to be a surprisingly life-like representation of a young thing full of innocent joy. “I’ve got an extra ticket for the Arts Ball to-night. They’re selling at a—they’re very expensive. Aren’t you a lucky girl!” “I?” said Mirabelle in surprise. “Why am I the lucky girl?” Joan rose from the bed and drew back from her reproachfully. “You surely will come with me? If you don’t, I shan’t be able to go at all. Lady Mary and I were going together, and now she’s sick!” Mirabelle opened her eyes wider. “But I can’t go, surely. It is a fancy dress ball, isn’t it? I read something about it in the papers. And I’m awfully tired to-night.” Joan pouted prettily. “My dear, if you lay down for an hour you’d be fit. Besides, you couldn’t sleep here early to-night: Monty’s having one of his men parties, and they’re a noisy lot of people—though thoroughly respectable,” she added hastily. Poor Joan had a mission outside her usual range. “I’d love to go,”—Mirabelle was anxious not to be a kill-joy,—“if I could get a dress.” “I’ve got one,” said the girl promptly, and ran out of the room. She returned very quickly, and threw the domino on the bed. “It’s not pretty to look at, but it’s got this advantage, that you can wear almost anything underneath.” “What time does the ball start?” Mirabelle, examining her mind, found that she was not averse to going; she was very human, and a fancy dress ball would be a new experience. “Ten o’clock,” said Joan. “We can have dinner before Monty’s friends arrive. You’d like to see Monty, wouldn’t you? He’s downstairs—such a gentleman, my dear!” The girl could have laughed. A little later she was introduced to the redoubtable Monty, and found his suave and easy manner a relief after the jerky efforts of the girl to be entertaining. Monty had seen most parts of the world and could talk entertainingly about them all. Mirabelle rather liked him, though she thought he was something of a fop, yet was not sorry when she learned that, so far from having friends to dinner, he did not expect them to arrive until after she and Joan had left. The meal put her more at her ease. He was a polished man of the world, courteous to the point of pomposity; he neither said nor suggested one thing that could offend her; they were half-way through dinner when the cry of a newsboy was heard in the street. Through the dining-room window she saw the footman go down the steps and buy a newspaper. He glanced at the stop-press space and came back slowly up the stairs reading. A little later he came into the room, and must have signalled to her host, for Monty went out immediately and she heard their voices in the passage. Joan was uneasy. “I wonder what’s the matter?” she asked, a little irritably. “It’s very bad manners to leave ladies in the middle of dinner——”