ignominious, it is true, but at any rate Florence could not run after him. He had made arrangements to meet a friend, and go for a tour with him in France towards the end of the month of August, or about five weeks from the present date. These arrangements he now determined to modify: he would go for his tour at once. Partially comforted by these reflections, he dressed himself that evening for the dance at the Smythes’, where he was to meet Florence, who, however, he gratefully reflected, could not expect him to kiss her there. The dance was to follow a lawn-tennis party, to which Dorothy, accompanied by Jeremy, had already gone, Ernest having, for reasons best known to himself, declined to go to the lawn-tennis, preferring to follow them to the dance. When he entered the ballroom at the Smythes’, the first quadrille was in progress. Making his way up the room, Ernest soon came upon Florence Ceswick, who was sitting with Dorothy, while in the background loomed Jeremy’s gigantic form. Both the girls appeared to be waiting for him, for on his approach Florence, by a movement of her dress, and an almost imperceptible motion of her hand, at once made room for him on the bench beside her, and invited him to sit down. He did so. “You are late,” she said; “why did you not come to the lawn-tennis?” “I thought that our party was sufficiently represented,” he answered, lamely, nodding towards Jeremy and his sister. “Why are you not dancing?” “Because nobody asked me,” she said, sharply; “and besides, I was waiting for you.” “Jeremy,” said Ernest, “here is Florence says that you didn’t ask her to dance.” “Don’t talk humbug, Ernest; you know I don’t dance.” “No, indeed,” put in Dorothy, “it is easy to see that; I never saw anybody look so miserable as you do.” “Or so big,” said Florence, consolingly. Jeremy shrank back into his corner and tried to look smaller. His sister was right, a dance was untold misery to him. The quadrille had ceased by now, and presently the band struck up a waltz, which Ernest danced with Florence. They both waltzed well, and Ernest kept going as much as possible, perhaps in order to give no opportunity for conversation. At any rate no allusion was made to the events of the previous evening. “Where are your aunt and sister, Florence?” he asked, as he led her back to her seat. “They are coming presently,” she answered, shortly. The next dance was a galop, and this he danced with Dorothy, whose slim figure looked, in the white muslin dress she wore, more like that of a child than a grown woman. But child or woman, her general appearance was singularly pleasing and attractive. Ernest thought that he had never seen the quaint, puckered little face, with the two steady blue eyes in it, look so attractive. Not that it was pretty—it was not, but it was a face with a great deal of thought in it, and moreover it was a face through which the goodness of its owner seemed to shine like the light through a lamp.