And as to the Butterfly’s Ball itself? Imagination had depicted a splendid realization of the verses, and it was flat to find it merely a children’s fancy ball, no acting at all, only dancing, and most of the children not attempting any characteristic dress, only with some insect attached to head or shoulder; nothing approaching to the fun of the rehearsal at Silverton, as indeed Fly had predicted. The only attempt at representation had cost Mysie more trouble than pleasure, for the training to dance together had been a difficult and wearisome business. Two of the grass-hoppers had been greatly displeased about it, and called it a beastly shame, words much shocking gentle Mysie from aristocratic lips. One of them had been as sulky, angry, and impracticable as possible, just like a log, and the other had consoled himself with all manner of tricks, especially upon the teacher and on Ivinghoe. He would skip like a real grasshopper, he made faces that set all laughing, he tripped Ivinghoe up, he uttered saucy speeches that Mysie considered too shocking to repeat, but which convulsed every one with laughter, Fly most especially, and her governess had punished her for it. ‘She would not punish me,’ said Mysie, ‘though I know I was just as bad, and I think that was a shame!’ At last the practising had to be carried on without the boys, and yet, when it came to the point, both the recusants behaved as well and danced as suitably as if they had submitted to the training like their sisters! And oh! the dressing, that was worse. ‘I did not think I was so stupid,’ said Mysie, ‘but I heard Louise tell mademoiselle that I was trop bourgeoise, and mademoiselle answered that I was plutot petite paysanne, and would never have l’air de distinction. ‘Abominable impertinence!’ cried Gillian. “They thought I did not understand,’ said Mysie, ‘and I knew it was fair to tell them, so I said, ‘Mais non, car je suis la petite souris de compagne.’” ‘Well done, Mysie!’ cried her sister. ‘They did jump, and Louise began apologizing in a perfect gabble, and mademoiselle said I had de l’esprit, but I am sure I did not mean it.’ ‘But how could they?’ exclaimed Gillian. ‘I’m sure Mysie looks like a lady, a gentleman’s child--I mean as much as Fly or any one else.’ ‘I trust you all look like gentlewomen, and are such in refinement and manners, but there is an air, which comes partly of birth, partly of breeding, and that none of you, except, perhaps, Alethea, can boast of, and about which papa and I don’t care one rush.’ ‘Has Fly got it, mamma?’ said Valetta. ‘She seemed like one of ourselves.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ put in Dolores. ‘It was what made me think her stuck up. I should have known her for a swell anywhere.’