The Albert Hall Ball, in aid of the hospitals of London, will be remembered by many people as one of the most brilliant entertainments of the brilliant season of 1922. But it will be remembered by Mrs. Lyon-West--she was a New York Lyon before she married a Hampshire West--for a remarkable conversation with young Lord Paramour, who, after dancing with her beautiful daughter, had drifted into her box. The word “drifted” is here used in its strictly nautical sense, for Lord Paramour had not the faintest idea into whose box he was entering. He had, after having danced with Miss Lyon-West (whose name he did not know, which is a grave reflection on the present state of society) discovered a distaste for the company of his guests in his own box, and had wandered to the first door he saw and shoved it open. Lord Paramour was an abstemious young man, but that night he had indulged in a glass or so of wine, wittily remarking to a friend that “a chap can’t dance in cold blood.” “Why, good-evening, Lord Paramour!” cried Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. “Ah,” said Lord Paramour. “’Evening. Sorry, I’m sure.” And he proceeded to drift out of the box again. “But please don’t go so soon, Lord Paramour! I am _delighted_ to see you. Only a moment ago I was remarking how _beautifully_ you and my daughter were dancing together!” “Your daughter? Ah!” And Lord Paramour, who couldn’t for the life of him remember the lady’s name, nor where he had met her, sat down and regarded her benevolently. “Better call her madam,” he thought to himself. “Enchanting girl, madam. Enchanting dancer. Enchanting lines. Enchanting everything. In fact, madam, a very adequate girl, your daughter.” “I am _so_ glad you like her,” said Mrs. Lyon-West brightly. Mrs. Lyon-West had a reputation to keep up as to brightness. “Like her, madam!” cried Lord Paramour. “I like her enormously. Most girls, I find, are rather tiresome--but your daughter, madam, is most unusual. And she is witty, which is remarkable in a girl. Please don’t deny it--I distinctly heard her say something witty while we were dancing. She said, if I remember aright: ‘The art of dancing is not to dance but to avoid other dancers.’ Now that, madam, is a _mot_, in fact it is a _bon mot_. I am very partial to a bon mot, madam. And considering that I had just bumped the back of her head into some ass’s elbow I think it was very apt of her. I was much impressed by your daughter, madam.” “Of course,” said Mrs. Lyon-West, “looks aren’t everything. A woman should be clever as well as beautiful----” “Exactly,” said Lord Paramour. “Exactly. Or quite.” “She reads such a lot!” sighed Mrs. Lyon-West. “Well, well, there’s nothing like reading,” said Lord Paramour. “Personally, I can never find anything to read these days. Lot of septic trash.” “But you are so fastidious, Lord Paramour!” “Oh, not at the moment, madam!” “Well, then, why are you so long getting married?” asked Mrs. Lyon-West with a bright smile.