"Mr. Brooke said that he had been most unexpectedly called away on a little matter of business, but that he would certainly return inside an hour and take you to the ball." He expected some expression of disappointment, but he was scarcely prepared for the dire effect of his communication. Irene ran precipitately to the darkest corner of the room, flung herself down on a sofa, and dissolved into tears. Feminine tears are an abomination to most men. Our hero is no exception to the rule. He fidgets uneasily in his chair a moment, then rises and goes over to the window, and listening to the low, sad murmur of the sea tries to lose the sound of that disconsolate sobbing over there in the dark corner. "I never saw such a great, spoiled baby in my life," he says, vexedly, to himself. "How childish, how silly! She's as pretty as a doll, and that's all there is to her!" But he cannot shut out easily the sound of her childish weeping. It haunts and vexes him. "Oh, I say, Miss Brooke," he says, going over to her at last, "I wouldn't cry if I were in your place. Your father will be back directly." Irene, lifting her head, looks at him with tearful blue eyes shining under the tangle of golden love-locks that half obscures her round, white forehead. "No, he will not," she answers, stifling her sobs. "When men go out on business they never come back for hours and hours--_and hours_!" dolefully. "It was too bad of papa to treat me so!" "But he was _called_ away--don't you understand that? He wouldn't have gone of himself," says Mr. Kenmore, doing valiant battle for his fellow-man. "I don't care. He shouldn't have gone after he'd promised me, and I was all ready," Irene answers, obstinately and with a fresh sob. "Little goosie!" the young man mutters between his teeth, and feeling a strong desire to shake the unreasonable child. But suddenly she springs up, dashing the tears from her eyes. "I won't _wait_ for papa, so there!" she flashes out, determinedly. "All the best dances will be over if we go so late. _You_ shall take me." "_I'm_ not invited, you know," he says, blankly. "No matter. They'll make you welcome, for Bert's sake. Any friend of Miss Bertha's, you know, etc.," she says, with a little, malicious laugh. "Yes, you shall go with me. It is a splendid idea. I wonder you didn't suggest it yourself." He smiles grimly. "Indeed, Miss Brooke, I'm not at all in ball costume," he objects, glancing down at his neat, light suit. "All the better. I despise their ugly black coats," she replies, warmly. "Do you know," with startling candor, "you are handsomer and nicer-looking than any of the black-coated dandies that dawdle around Ellie and Bert? Come, you _will_ go, just to please me, won't you?" she implores, pathetically. "No gentleman ever refuses a lady's request," he replies, with rather a sulky air.