It is not easy for one who went down his first country-dance when seven years old, at a children's ball, and has since practised the festive science until he is too old to obtain any but children for partners, to imagine the sensations of a novice like Randolph. Leaning on Rereworth's arm, he looked confusedly at the fluctuating scene around him, stationary himself among a universal motion, silent amidst an all-pervading voice. His friend in the meantime was surveying the company as it flowed tranquilly by him, recognising acquaintances, now and then exchanging a few sentences. Randolph heeded him not, being engaged in a fanciful comparison of the assembly to the sea, and blending the faces of the company into waves, instead of distinguishing individuals. He did not even observe that one quitted the stream and ranged itself on the other side of Rereworth. He did not observe it, until that gentleman, pressing his arm, said, "Morton, my cousin-_in-law_, Miss Pendarrel." It was a little sudden. Schoolboys tell stories about home and relations; "men" at college become more reserved; in the world such confidences cease. One sometimes knows nothing even of an intimate friend's family. Thus Rereworth had not mentioned other names in his invitation to Randolph, and Winston brought no associations to his mind at its first announcement. But the case was very different when he heard that of Pendarrel, and recognised its fair owner. Mechanically, intuitively, he offered Mildred his arm. She laid her hand lightly within it, and they moved onward with the crowd. They made the tour of the saloon before the cavalier uttered a syllable. "Seymour has brought me an oddity," thought Mildred. Randolph was overwhelmed with a flood of rapid emotions, sombre as the canopy which hung above his father's deathbed. His heart beat quick, and he pressed his lips together, struggling hard to obtain a mastery over the tumult within him. One moment he wished he could vanish away, the next he thrilled with rapture at the light touch upon his arm. Mildred was perplexed. She knew she might esteem any one of whom Rereworth spoke well. She had been prepared to see, and to excuse, a little confusion. But there was more here than the confusion of a novice. "Pardon me, Miss Pendarrel," at length Randolph said, in a voice of tremulous tenderness: "I am new and strange to society. I have relied too lightly on my friend's promises. I walk in a dream." There is a sort of seeming egotism which is very profitable in love. Few men will fail to excite interest by the true account of their own emotions. To a woman the confidence is always flattering. Randolph's speech was strangely at variance with the usual persiflage. But, perhaps, if he had intended to make love, he could not have spoken better. Mildred was struck by his accent, and interested by his manner. But she was experienced. "A pleasant dream, Mr. Morton, I hope," she said. He quivered at the sound of the name.