The aristocratic assembly looked on with mixed feelings, and faces suitable to the same. The girls who could not skirt-dance yawned behind their fans--gauze preferred, because the Fitzmannerings could see through gauze if they could not see through anything else. The gifted products of fashionable Brighton schools, who could in their own way make exhibitions of themselves also, wondered who on earth had taught Miss Fitzmannering; and the servants at the door felt ashamed of themselves without knowing why. Miss Fitzmannering had practised that skirt-dance--those few steps--religiously for the last month. She had been taught those same contortions by a young lady in THE profession, whom even Billy Fitzmannering raised his eyebrows at. And every one knows that Billy is not particular. The performance was not graceful, and the gentlemen present, who knew more about dancing--skirt or otherwise--than they cared to admit, pursed up the corners of their mouths and looked straight in front of them--afraid to meet the eye of some person or persons undefined. But the best face there was that of Sir John Meredith. He was not bored, as were many of his juniors--at least, he did not look it. He was neither shocked nor disgusted, as apparently were some of his contemporaries--at least, his face betrayed neither of those emotions. He was keenly interested--suavely attentive. He followed each spasmodic movement with imperturbably pleasant eyes. “My dear young lady,” he said, with one of his courtliest bows, when at last Miss Fitzmannering had had enough of it, “you have given us a great treat--you have, indeed.” “A most unique performance,” he continued, turning gravely to Lady Cantourne, by whose side he had been standing; and, strange to say, her ladyship made a reproving little movement of the lips, and tapped his elbow surreptitiously, as if he were misbehaving himself. He offered his arm with a murmur of refreshments, and she accepted. “Well,” he said, when they were alone, or nearly so, “do you not admit that it was a most unique performance?” “Hush!” replied the lady, either because she was a woman or because she was a woman of the world. “The poor girl cannot help it. She is forced into it by the exigencies of society, and her mother. It is not entirely her fault.” “It will be entirely my fault,” replied Sir John, “if I see her do it again.” “It does not matter about a man,” said Lady Cantourne, after a little pause; “but a woman cannot afford to make a fool of herself. She ought never to run the risk of being laughed at. And yet I am told that they teach that elegant accomplishment at fashionable schools.” “Which proves that the schoolmistress is a knave as well as--the other thing.” They passed down the long room together--a pattern, to the younger generation, of politeness and mutual respect. And that which one or other did not see was not worth comprehension.