"Pleasant!" he exclaimed; and then recovering himself partly--"I think it is pleasant.... They are forming quadrilles. Shall we dance, Miss Pendarrel?" "If you please," answered Mildred, partly puzzled and partly provoked. "Mr. Melcomb," she added to that gentleman, as he passed with a lady, "you will be my _vis-à-vis_." Melcomb bowed, looked at Mildred's partner, and raised his eyebrows slightly. Randolph recollected the man he had seen at the opera, disliked what he fancied was a singular familiarity, and wondered what was the coxcomb's position in the family. As he warmed in the dance, however, his moodiness and taciturnity gave way. He flung himself into the humour of the moment, retrieved his character with his partner, and obtained another engagement. "Let destiny decide," he said to himself. Melcomb was Mildred's partner in the next set. "Who is your unknown knight?" he asked. "My partner!" said the lady. "A friend of Mr. Rereworth's." "He is in love with you," remarked the coxcomb. "I hope he is," Mildred laughed. "Cruel! He will languish and die." "That is as I please. I am to dance with him again." "Is Mrs. Pendarrel here?" It was a taunt, and Mildred felt it. Turn the kaleidoscope. "I consider," wrote Sir Richard Steele, "woman as a beautiful romantic animal, that may be adorned with furs and feathers, pearls and diamonds, ores and silks. The lynx shall cast its skin at her feet to make her a tippet; the peacock, parrot, and swan shall pay contributions to her muff; the sea shall be searched for shells, and the rocks for gems; and every part of nature shall furnish out its share towards the embellishment of a creature that is the most consummate work of it." The numerous fair forms in Mrs. Winston's saloons, on which such adornments were lavished in profusion, might easily remind a spectator of the toy which we have named. Randolph, after resigning his partner, wandered rather desolately through the brilliant throng, unobservant and little observed. Finding a vacant and remote corner, he ensconced himself there as an absentee. The gay crowd glimmered before his eyes with the changing hues of the opal, the music sounded from afar like the waves on the sea-shore. Why did that association continually intrude? Why did the muser's thoughts ever turn to Trevethlan? Why did he wish, so earnestly, ever and anon, that he had never quitted the home of his fathers? Solitude in a crowd has been the theme of much moralizing. In Randolph's case it was peculiarly striking, for it was due, not merely to absence of mind, but also to an absolute want of acquaintance. Except Rereworth and his late partner, the muser might be said to know no one in the whole of the gay assembly. And even Seymour was ignorant of his real situation. Randolph felt oppressed by his loneliness, yet at the same time unwilling to accept any companionship.