Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee. His back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not his own, nor yet his teeth. But his manners were entirely his own. His face was eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society smile with the best of them. There was not a young man in the room of whom he was afraid, conversationally. “No, Lady Cantourne,” he repeated. “Your charming niece is heartless. She will get on.” Lady Cantourne smiled, and drew the glove further up her stout and motherly right arm. “She will get on,” she admitted. “As to the other, it is early to give an opinion.” “She has had the best of trainings--,” he murmured. And Lady Cantourne turned on him with a twinkle amidst the wrinkles. “For which?” she asked. “Choisissez!” he answered, with a bow. One sees a veteran swordsman take up the foil with a tentative turn of the wrist, lunging at thin air. His zest for the game has gone; but the skill lingers, and at times he is tempted to show the younger blades a pass or two. These were veteran fencers with a skill of their own, which they loved to display at times. The zest was that of remembrance; the sword-play of words was above the head of a younger generation given to slang and music-hall airs; and so these two had little bouts for their own edification, and enjoyed the glitter of it vastly. Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for he had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men have. And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he fumbled with his fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and even in his old age he was handsome beyond other men--standing an upright six feet two. The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss Millicent Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager dancers anxious to insert their names in some corner of her card. She was the fashion at that time. And she probably did not know that at least half of the men crowded round because the other half were there. Nothing succeeds like the success that knows how to draw a crowd. She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each in turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not be expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle intimation that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her success. “She is having an excellent time,” said Sir John, weighing on the modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own. “Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little,” answered the lady. “Nor I. It will not last.” “Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds.”