Millicent Chyne smiled. He had emphasised the last remark with lover-like glance and tone. She was young enough; her own beauty was new enough to herself to blind her to the possibility mentioned. She had not even got to the stage of classifying as dull all men who did not fall in love with her at first sight. It was her first season, one must remember. “I have not tried very hard,” she said. “But I don't see why I should not fail.” “That is easily explained.” “Why?” “No looking-glass about.” She gave a little pout, but she liked it. The music of the next dance was beginning, and, remembering their social obligations, they both rose. She laid her hand on his arm, and for a moment his fingers pressed hers. He smiled down into her upturned eyes with love, but without passion. He never for a second risked the “gentleman” and showed the “man.” He was suggestive of a forest pool with a smiling rippled surface. There might be depth, but it was yet unpenetrated. “Shall we go now,” he said, “and say a few words in passing to my redoubtable father? It might be effective.” “Yes, if you like,” she answered promptly. There is no more confident being on earth than a pretty girl in a successful dress. They met Sir John at the entrance of the ballroom. He was wandering about, taking in a vast deal of detail. “Well, young lady,” he said, with an old-world bow, “are you having a successful evening?” Millicent laughed. She never knew quite how to take Sir John. “Yes, I think so, thank you,” she answered, with a pretty smile. “I am enjoying myself very much.” There was just the least suggestion of shyness in her manner, and it is just possible that this softened the old cynic's heart, for his manner was kinder and almost fatherly when he spoke again. “Ah!” he said, “at your time of life you do not want much--plenty of partners and a few ices. Both easily obtainable.” The last words were turned into a compliment by the courtly inclination of the head that accompanied them. The exigencies of the moment forced the young people to go with the stream. “Jack,” said Sir John, as they passed on, “when you have been deprived of Miss Chyne's society, come and console yourself with a glass of sherry.” The dutiful son nodded a semi-indifferent acquiescence and disappeared. “Wonderful thing, sherry!” observed Sir John Meredith for his own edification. He waited there until Jack returned, and then they set off in search of refreshment. The son seemed to know his whereabouts better than the father. “This way,” he said, “through the conservatory.” Amidst the palms and tropical ferns Sir John paused. A great deal of care had been devoted to this conservatory. Half hidden among languorous scented flowers were a thousand tiny lights, while overhead in the gloom towered graceful palms and bananas. A fountain murmured pleasantly amidst a cluster of maidenhairs. The music from the ballroom fell softly over all.