CHAPTER V.

RANDOLPH'S TRIBULATIONS.

"Randolph!" hissed Cornelius Jordan in his son's ear, as they met in a vacant doorway not long after. "You're a fool!--a pig-headed young fool. There are plenty young duffers around to tend the children and the wall-flowers, and yet you have done nothing else the whole evening. Dancing three times running with a little girl, and then towing round a curiosity, just as if you wanted to tell your mother's guests that you didn't mind any of them, and would as soon dance with a stitcher. What do you mean, sir?" and he shook the young man's arm to rouse him.

The young man moved his eyes lazily round to the other's face and said, "Yes, sir;" whereat the other stamped his foot.

"Well for me, father, is it not, that I'm too big to whip, or I'd catch it now?"

"You'll catch worse than whipping if you don't mind. You'll ruin your prospects for life! If I'd whipped you better when it was in my power, you'd be more sensible now."

"Don't blame yourself, sir; you did your best in that way. I believe I got more lickings than the five other boys on our street all put together. You have nothing to reproach yourself with on that score. You made me squirm, and perhaps it did good, relieving _your_ feelings if it lacerated mine, but it's over now--forgotten and forgiven, I suppose, as it has left no marks or effects behind it; for I fancy the other fellows' fathers have more influence with them than we can flatter ourselves you have with me."

"You can come to my study to-morrow morning when I am shaving if you want me to hear the rest of your discourse upon the evil of harshness in bringing up a supersensitive boy; though my own belief is that it was your mother who spoiled you. Meanwhile, use your common sense for once, if you have any; hear me out, and then do as I say.

"You think yourself talented, and for myself I should be pleased to think so too, but you hate work, and will not drudge at the routine of our profession, without which success cannot come. You think you have a turn for politics, and could make your mark that way; and for myself, I am bound to say I think you might become a good speaker with practice; but success in politics wants either industry and application at the beginning, qualities which you do not possess or will not exercise, or else a connection with some influential interest. This last you have not either, but with very moderate assiduity any young man, who is also my son, may at this moment acquire and retain it for life. Mlle. Rouget is of an age to marry--just the right age for you. Her granduncle is archbishop, her uncle a cabinet minister. She is an only child, and her father is seignior of La Hache. I have been able to be useful to the old man, and he will consider your pretensions favourably if you will only declare yourself. In fact, I have in a manner declared on your behalf, and a very moderate degree of attention on your part, in confirmation, is all that is necessary. You see she is French, and well reared--willing to let her parents bestow her hand where they see fit. So you will not be compelled to such lavish demonstrations as I have seen you make elsewhere, where nothing was to be got by it; only of course, it will be good taste to discontinue the attentions in other quarters while you are a pretender to mademoiselle's hand!

"Why, man! with the church and the government at your back there is not a constituency in the country you may not aspire to represent; and with experience and my advice--which is worth more, my son, than you in your sapiency can very well make out--there is no position whatever which you may not rise to. Now don't be pig-headed! I see the obstinate look gathering; but do not let us have a public row for the entertainment of our friends. Go and dance with Mdlle. Rouget, and be civil to her; and take in her or her mother to supper. That will not compromise you either way, and it will save me for the present from the false position in which my zeal for your prospects, and your own indifference to them, seem like to land me."

Jordan and his son were scarcely good friends, though both were inclined to do their family duty. Like the positive poles of two magnets, they never met without repelling each other. Jordan was naturally diplomatic, with a pronounced turn for management, which generally ended in his getting his own way, and therefore made him disinclined to yield. In town he was liked for his pleasant ways, and generally he was yielded to; but at home, his consort, whom the rest of the world found charming, had, for him, what charming women so often possess for the enlivenment of their nearest and dearest, and without which, perhaps, they would soon cease to be charming at all, a will of her own. She had an inconvenient turn for epigram, and with a verb, or even with a laugh, could prick a bubble or a wind-bag in its weakest place, bringing the poor high-flyer flapping to the ground; and Jordan, doubtless, like other Benedicts, though moderate in his flights abroad, would at times adventure to soar a little by his own fireside. Amelia permitted no soaring there except her own--is not home the woman's kingdom?--and perhaps it was thus that her boy learned a disregard for paternal advice and reproof which could not but irritate a man accustomed to guide and control in the outer world. A boy! and his own. It would have been too humiliating to stoop to management there, especially with mischief-loving Amelia looking on; so he fell into a habit of commanding, and beating the boy when he transgressed.

The stick, however, is a sceptre little suited to the nineteenth century or the Western Continent. For the subjects of the Khedive it is manifestly just the thing. The people understand it, and the more vigorously it is applied the happier are the results--for the State at least. But then His Highness is generous even to prodigality in administering the State medicine, without stint or exception, and on every occasion. It is _Thorough_ which succeeds in Government. James II. was perfectly correct when he said that it was yielding which cost King Charles his head. It _was_ yielding, yielding after having attempted "thorough" without the strength or the daring to work it out. When the bad rider, inexpert with spur, whip, and bridle, strokes the steed's neck and says "poor fellow," softly and soothingly, depend upon it the horse understands the situation as well as his so-called master, and goes his own way. Conciliation, reparation--what you will--to noisy discontent, is a mistake of the same kind; the rider may borrow a handsome name for it from the doctrinaire, but he will not persuade the steed that anything but weakness or fright has wrung from him his pretty behaviour. So much we may gather from recent British history.

But the teller of this story may well leave British history to run its own course, and he craves pardon for his trespass. What he would testify against, in his small way, is historical inconsistency and hysterical interference, however well meant, with the sequence of events. See how a ship has to tack and turn when the wind changes, if she would continue her voyage; if the ship of state is merely to turn her helm and scud before an altered wind of popular feeling, without regard to whence she comes or whither she is bound, sooner or later she will find herself among the breakers, and on a lee shore.

Jordan had attempted the _fortiter in re_ with his son, but not consistently, and especially not persistently. Indeed, like many another, he would have let the brat alone during his growing years, merely sending him out of the room when he was noisy, or tossing him silver in moments of paternal pride, for his thoughts were kept busy on other things; but the whelp acquired a trick of ensconsing himself behind his mother's gown and bidding defiance to the rightful lord of the manor, and then the latent savage, which is said still to survive in the most cultured, would break out, and nothing but blows and howls would appease him. On these occasions it was the lad's mother who brought fuel to inflame the father's wrath. It pleased her so much that her boy should come to her for protection in his troubles, and she was so pleasing a person herself--or the world said so, and she had got to think it--with her vivacity, her brightness, and her satiric smile, wherewith she could goad old Slow-coach to fury; and he being man enough, at least, to respect his wife, the fury glanced harmless past her and fell in stinging whacks on the poor little adventurer behind her, who had raised the storm. Yet even at his worst, Jordan could find nothing soul-satisfying in beating a small boy, and after a clout or two he would desist, with no harm done except to the young one's personal dignity and the resentment bred therefrom, and that was an evil not to be measured by the severity of the assault, but rather inversely. The lighter the correction the heavier the resentment and offence.

"If you _will_ whip a child," as I once heard an American lecturess say--she was a superior person who knew all about it, and had left her own seven lambs at home under the care of a hired help, while she went out into the world with her evangel of nursery tactics--"If you _will_ whip a child, _be sure you really hurt it!_" There must be tingle enough to overbear the indignation and resentment which the violence you are doing to its person will naturally arouse; you must whip enough to make it forget the outrage in the solid pain which it suffers. It is only then that you need expect to super-impose your own will upon that of the patient.

I suppose Jordan had never listened to the American lecturess, if he had, he did not lay the homily to heart. At any rate, he struck, when he might have managed quite as well without; and striking, he struck only enough to arouse in his son feelings of deeper rebellion than those which he undertook to quell; and thereafter a grudge and a suspicion came between the old man and the young, which perhaps the mother without any evil intent, but merely from loving to be first with her own son, his councillor and his friend, did more to aggravate than any one else.

Randolph went in search of Miss Rouget to secure his dance, but the young lady's card was filled up. She had kept a vacancy for him some time, but at length her mother sitting by, displeased at the young man's neglect, had made her fill it up with some one else, and now glanced at the offender with a somewhat stony reserve, which softened, however, when he approached herself, and prayed the honour of leading her to supper. On glancing round the company she could see no good reason why her host had not come forward in person to perform the office. "But then those English," as she told herself, "are so ignorant of the _convenances_." Again, the young man might be diffident in pursuit of his matrimonial aspirations, which was to his credit; and also, she was getting very tired where she sat. Her English was not fluent, and the French of the others was so indifferent, that few dared use the little they had, whence she had not been entertained with much conversation, and the smiling bows had grown monotonous. Supper was the one recreation open to her, and as she looked, behold, her husband was leading the way with his hostess. So after all there was no ground of offence, and her features relaxed into their wonted graciousness as she joined the procession. The younger people continued to dance, and Randolph felt a little twinge of jealousy to see Muriel again dancing with Gerald. He was able to whisper to her in passing, however, which was something, begging her to linger and let him take her to supper by-and-by. Madame ceased speaking just then, to some one on her other side, and claimed his attention by an observation, so that he failed to catch what Muriel said in reply.

Madame enjoyed her supper, as was fitting. She had earned it by hours of conscientious _chaperonage_, which had declined even the allurements of the neighbouring card-room. She was so fortunate too as to be placed near a gentleman who spoke French well, and now indemnified herself for the enforced silence under which she had been yawning so wearily. In the comings and goings, the risings and sittings down, of some going back to dance and others coming in to sup, a little circle of her intimates gathered round madame, and Randolph, no way averse, found himself merely a supernumerary on its outskirts. It was his opportunity; he availed himself of it, and stole back to look for Muriel among the dancers. He came upon her as she rested at the end of a dance, with still that same too constant Gerald in attendance.

"Now then, Miss Muriel," he cried; "if you are ready we will go at once. The dowagers are leaving the supper-room, and after this dance the musicians will take a rest, and there will be a crush of all the dancers coming in at once. If you are ready we will go."

Muriel looked up.

"Thanks for the information. Miss Muriel is going presently. We will get in ahead of those who are dancing now," said Gerald with a suppressed smile.

Randolph drew himself up just a little, and strove to look dignified while he ignored the last speaker. "Of course there is no need to hurry if you prefer to rest; but it is so much cooler in the supper-room; do you not think you will be better to come at once, Muriel?"

"I was just rising to go with Gerald Herkimer when you spoke."

"But I spoke some time ago--when I passed you with Madame Rouget. You were dancing at the time."

"That was my dance, Muriel," interjected Gerald; "you promised then to let me take you to supper."

Randolph drew himself up to his tallest--he was two inches taller than Gerald--and turned his flushed face with all the dignity he could muster in it upon his offending friend. "I have only Miss Stanley to deal with in this matter, and I prefer to settle it with herself."

"Bosh! man. What is the use of your putting on grand airs with me? Haven't we gone to school together? It isn't a bit of good your trying to play Don Fandango. If you like, we can go down to your back yard, take off our coats, and have it out with lists in the old way; but the people will be sure to laugh, and we shall look rather rumpled when we get back here. We are getting old for that sort of thing, besides. Don't you see you have made a mistake somehow, and the young lady is engaged for supper to me?"

"I don't! and I won't! and I do----"

"Law, now! Mr. Jordan, ain't this just splendid? You are making up a party for supper, I see, and I am a hungry party that will be most pleased to join you;" and Randolph felt a fat arm slip through that arm of his own which he had been offering so pressingly to Muriel. There was a vision of geranium-coloured poplin flapping against him, and when he looked round, behold, Miss Betsey had him in possession. There was nothing for it but to submit and lead the way while the other two followed; even though a smothered "haw, haw," which he could hear behind him, filled his heart with fury, and made him long to face about and brain the offender on the spot. The natural man is a savage still, especially when his inclination to the fair is crossed; culture, good-manners, and white kid gloves notwithstanding.

Betsey was exuberant. Thanks to Muriel's efforts, she had danced and eaten ice with Randolph, and Gerald, and a good many more--danced almost continuously, and quite energetically--having, in her own words, "a real good time." And now she was a little hungry, but in overflowing spirits, as she trotted beside her tall cavalier, with her chin pressed into the dimpling redundancy of her short thick neck, where every line and crease seemed to vie with the parted lips in smiling content.

Randolph stalked gloomily by her side, realizing his helplessness, and resenting the amused glances which met him as he proceeded. But what could he do? He could only submit, and get through with the interlude as quickly as possible. He was lucky enough to find a small table vacant in a retired corner of the supper-room, where he placed himself and his little companion, ignoring tugs and nods and pointings to more conspicuous places, where the lights would have shone brighter on her beauty and her revelry--which were just the things he wished to keep out of sight. Betsey had the best of everything to eat, however, which was compensatory, and her companion had at least the satisfaction of sitting opposite Muriel. He had secured them for the rest of his own table, and if he was unable to say much to her himself, it was something to have prevented a _tête-à-tête_ with his rival.

Randolph's disturbed feelings were subsiding into sullen calm. He was eating his supper. He had filled his companion's glass and his own; and Betsey, smiling to pledge him, held her foaming goblet in her hand awaiting his answering glance, when a sombre body--the back and shoulders of a man's coat--interposed itself between them.

"Jordan! Here you are at last," it said. It was only a man's coat, so far as Betsey could see, intruding most impertinently between herself and her _beau_. "I have been looking for you everywhere. Now I have found you. Madame Rouget has done supper, and is waiting for you to go back to the dancing-room."

Betsey made a little gulp of indignation; but no one perceived it, or seemed to heed her. Randolph rose like a truant returning to school, led away by the man in the coat; and she, poor Betsey! was left--lamenting? No--finishing her supper. She held her glass across to Gerald for a little more champagne, and thereby tacitly placed herself under his protection for the rest of the meal. There was much natural adaptability to circumstances in Betsey, notwithstanding her too evident lack of polish. Like the celebrated brook, she went tranquilly forward, however "men might come, or men might go," in a consistent following out of what seemed the attainably best for herself. With opportunity and culture Betsey might have gone far.

Madame Rouget rose at Randolph's approach, and took his arm to leave the room. She showed no displeasure or cognisance of his desertion, but there was a distinct refrigeration of the graciousness with which she had accepted his escort to the supper-table half-an-hour before. In leaving the room they were stopped for an instant in front of the little table which Randolph had risen from. Madame lifted her eye-glass just where geranium-coloured poplin made the feature of the view, and its wearer in much comfort held a wine-glass to her lips, smiling across to Gerald Herkimer, a modernized suggestion of one of Jourdain's carousing beauties, though with the flesh tints far less delicately rendered. She dropped the eye-glass with a click, and a French shrug, and that accompanying rise of the eyebrows so infinitely more expressive of scorn and contempt than any word.

"I am _desolée_, to have take Mistaire Jordain from ze plaisirs of his soopaire. But ze demoiselle aippears herself to console ver well. Wich rassure me ver much."

Madame must certainly have been indignant when she used these words, for, when quite herself, her English was grammatically correct enough if the vocabulary was restricted and a word was sometimes used in a wrong sense. It is a woman's right to take offence at the _formam spretam_ by a suitor, and if the form despised be her daughter's instead of her own, she can resent it with even better grace.

Not long after, Mr. Jordan senior came upon Mr. Rouget leaving the card-room, and expressed a hope that he had been able to amuse himself.

"I have not the good fortunes at cards this evening," that gentleman replied; "I have won nothing; lost, rather, I fear."

"So sorry; come have a glass of wine, and perhaps the luck may turn."

"_N'importe_, I shall play no more to-night. The fortunes are not _propices_. My _système_ does not conform to the play of Mistaire--what you call?--Constantine."

"Considine. Probably not. He generally plays euchre. You were playing whist. Liable to trump his partner's best card. I know his weakness. Let me find you some one else."

"I thank you. No. It grows late. I go in search of madame. _M'sieur_ himself does not succeed well in the little plan he did me the honour to propose--to ally our families. I observe M'sieur Randolphe withholds the--what you say?--the _petits soins_ which aire of custom when a gentleman pretends to the hand of a demoiselle. _N'importe_, I accept the excuses of m'sieur without saying. One knows the authority of father counts for nothing with you English; but the more should have been an understanding before to approach me."

"My dear sir," Jordan began deprecatingly; but the other raised his hand in dignified protest.

"Enough. I make no reproach--_N'importe_. My good brother, the ministre, has views. We will forget."

"My dear Mr. Rouget--I beg!--I will even admit that you have ground of offence, but pray take into account the waywardness of a head-strong youth who resents being dictated to, and fancies he should decide his own movements. Still, I must say for him, the boy really is steady, and a good lad; and that, you will allow, is a qualification not always to be met with among the eligible young men of the present day. The mortgage upon La Hache would be a nice provision for the young people, would save you from the possibility of instalments falling due at inconvenient times, and I think--though perhaps I am too nearly related to be an impartial judge--the lad has parts, and would not discredit the Honourable the Minister of Drainage and Irrigation either in politics or the public service. He has been bred to the law, as perhaps you know, and passed his examinations with distinction."

M. Rouget bowed his head and allowed the look of displeasure to relax upon his countenance. He was most willing to push forward the matrimonial scheme, though naturally, as being the weaker party, it behoved him to keep that fact to himself, and to be ready, at the first sign of backwardness on the other side, to feign offended dignity, that he might be able to withdraw from the fruitless negotiation with the honours of war.

They were now leaving the supper-room together, and Considine approached just as the Frenchman walked forward alone in search of his ladies.

"At last," thought Considine, "I shall catch Jordan alone, and get over that talk I have been so long wanting to have with him;" and he pressed his breast pocket to make sure of the documents he had carried about so long, in hopes of catching the busy man in a moment of leisure. Jordan noticed the movement, and was defensively on the alert at once.

"Considine, old fellow! Not dancing?"

"My dancing days are over. But I say, Jordan, I wish you would give me just a few minutes quiet----"

"Over? What an idea! The springiest man of our set! Without the first sign of either gout or rheumatism! And you would give up dancing, and ticket yourself a fogy before your time? No! no! Couldn't think of it. Yonder are a score of ladies, all your friends, sitting down after supper, and waiting to be asked to dance. Every woman likes to be danced with after supper, if only to show the world that men don't look upon her as too old. Come along! Let me find you a partner, though you know every one here."

"But I never valse."

"It is Lancers this time. I am going to dance myself. Mrs. Martindale. A very old friend. Knew her before either of us were married. We always have a dance when we meet. Come along!--Miss Stanley! Here is a gentleman so desirous of dancing with you, and too modest to ask. Pray take pity on him."

Miss Matilda looked up in a little surprise, but smiled on seeing Considine.

"You are a sad wag, Mr. Jordan. It seems scarcely fair that we grown-up people should crowd out the young ones. However, as Mr. Considine is so kind----" and she rose, and taking his arm they joined the dancers.

Age is not a question to be decided by almanacs or the comparison of dates. How many generations of roses have bloomed and disappeared since the aloe was sown, a hundred years ago, which now is only opening its flower. The willow has fallen into battered decrepitude, while the oak, its slow-growing contemporary hard by, has barely reached his prime. Life should not be measured by the tale of years, but by itself--by the measure of oil unburnt, which remains within the lamp. There be some, who, making bonfire of their store--lighting the candle at both ends in the gusty weather--have consumed it mostly ere the seventh lustrum has run out, and go darkling thenceforth with nothing but a smoky wick and a guttering remnant; and there are others who have dwelt where the winds were still, and have shaded their lamps and trimmed them, like prudent virgins, whose light grows clearer as they pass along, and accompanies them with a tranquil radiance far down into the valley where the shadows are, and the inevitable end. It is the excitements and the cares which devour our strength, the unsatisfied greeds which eat inward, the ill-regulated pleasures which exhaust. Work never killed a man; or, if it did, he was a weakling, or he had mistaken his trade.

"Only look!" cried Amelia Jordan, touching her neighbour, Martha Herkimer, with her fan, "I think I may flatter myself that my juvenile party is a success, when the contagious gaiety has caught even that superannuated couple. I should feel flattered, but I confess I am not fond of frisky grey beards. There is a time for everything, even for sitting still and watching the young ones. I wonder at Considine; and really Matilda might have had more sense than yield to his absurdity."

"Do you mean the gineral and Matildy Stanley? Well now, 'pears to me, they're about the likeliest couple on the floor. If they're old it's their own business, their bones will ache the worse and the sooner; but as far as looks go, I will say there ain't man or boy of them all looks as spry as the gineral. And, as for Matildy, she looks well. I always liked Matildy, and I admire her."

"Oh, certainly, my dear, I quite agree with you. I am fond of Matilda--good simple soul--I cannot think how she missed getting married. So many worse, have established themselves well, since she was young. But really you know it is just a little ridiculous, at her time of life, to see her disporting herself. Why, there are her niece and your own boy in the same set!"

"So are Mr. Jordan and Mrs. Martindale."

"Oh, yes, but that is nothing. Jordan must make himself useful in his own house; and every one knows Louisa is a fool, who would like to be thought gay, giddy, and dangerous. I would bet a box of gloves, now, she thinks she is breaking my heart with jealousy. Just look how she wriggles about, and how the chandelier so nearly over her head brings out the crowsfeet and wrinkles round her eyes. I would not, for fifty dollars, walk down the centre of the room when that thing is lighted, if anybody were looking.

"You don't see no crowsfeet around Matildy's eyes, I guess. She's a fine woman, is Matildy Stanley. I wonder where the man's eyes have been that she should have stayed Matildy Stanley so long. See how she walks! As upright as a broomstick, and as springy as a cane."

"Men like other things along with looks," said Amelia bridling. "Though really Matilda looks quite nice--considering. One can scarcely claim to be in one's first youth now-a-days, and we all came out the same year, so our ages cannot be very far apart, Louisa Martindale, Matilda, and I; and Louisa and I have grown up children."

"You don't say that Mrs. Martindale is one age with Matildy? She looks nigh on twenty years older. _You're_ different," she added quickly, as the gathering of a look on her friend's face, which did not betoken satisfaction, became apparent.

"Perhaps Louisa does wear a little badly," she answered, in returning good humour. "That light betrays everything. Louisa has so much vivacity, and perhaps she is just the least bit in the world affected, I believe it must be that has made her go off so. So much simpering and smiling, when one doesn't feel so very pleased, and makes believe a good deal, must naturally wear creases in the face. Do you not think so? Matilda, on the other hand, as you know, is so calm and tranquil; her face has not half the tear and wear of Louisa's, and therefore it lasts ever so much better. But, somehow, Louisa, I should say, has got more good out of her life. She has got more bad, too, I grant, for she has been in the thick of everything; but I think I prefer that. Matilda seemed never just to hit it off with the men. I do not recollect her ever receiving any marked attentions, and she did not betray any strong preferences to her. There are no little vignettes, that I ever heard of, to illustrate her biography. You know what I mean. _Passages_, people call them, which most of us like to bring out of our memories and look at, when we feel low and a little sentimental; just as we open the old box where our bridal wreath is laid away, and wonder as we wrap the thing up again in its tissue papers, if the gingerbread has really been worth all the gilding we overlaid it with."

Martha sniffed. It did not become an honest married woman to talk that way, she thought; but she said nothing, and the sniff proved enough to modulate Amelia's tone down to the narrational key again.

"When the officers were quartered here, of course it made society lively; and they paid a great deal of attention to us all,"--with just a suspicion of bridling, as she said it, as though she had "vignettes" of her own to remember, if it were worth while to count the scalps won in such old-world encounters. "Matilda was in the thick of it all, and got plenty of attention, but it never came to anything; and I am bound to say she betrayed no anxiety that it should. Her father was an Englishman, you see, and she has travelled; and she has money, and a sister; so I suppose it comes natural to them to take things easily and be comfortable in their own cool-blooded and retired sort of way. Very nice women, I must admit, and always the same wherever you meet them; but one cannot make free with them as we do amongst ourselves. Really it is quite like long ago, to see Matilda dancing out there with Considine. She is little changed. Fuller in the figure, perhaps, but that is becoming as one gets up in life. Her hair is in the same old way she always wore it--in streaming side curls. 'Books of Beauty,' when I was a little girl, displayed ladies with hair-dressing like that; but, except Matilda, I never saw a living woman wear it. Though it becomes her."

"Splendid hair! So long and thick; and not one white thread in it. Now, what colour was Mrs. Martindale's originally? It's dun-duckety mud colour now, or what you please," and her eyes involuntarily rested on Amelia's head-dress, eliciting an angry red spot upon either cheek, which was answered by a flush of ashamed confusion on her own, at the inadvertence, and brought the conversation to an abrupt conclusion.

The unconscious subject of her friend's criticism swam here and there through the figures of her dance in sympathy with the music, borne up and carried forward, like a well-trimmed yacht, upon the current of sound. She had danced little, if at all, for years; but it came naturally to her to dance. There was no heart-heaviness or carking care, no malice, envy, or uncharitableness--the unadjustable ballast which makes so many a hull roll heavily. Her health was good, as it had always been, her nerves as well strung, and her ear as sensitive to the spirit of sound. She looked well, and she knew it, with the mature and realized beauty of a summer afternoon--a lady such as the late King George admired. There was not the dewy promise of morning, but neither were there evening's pensive shadows pointing backward in regret--a handsome woman who had shed her girlhood, but showed no other sign by which to count the years. It was pleasant to be brought down off the shelf where matrons and old ladies sit and contemplate the gambols of the young, and made her think of her first ball, and how nice it had been, but without regret, for it was nice even now; and there was her own little Muriel whom she had reared, almost grown up, and marching before her just like another woman in the evolutions of the dance. And really it was very nice to have a gentleman so attentive, and all to one's self; like long ago, before her married friends got their establishments, and put on their absurdly patronizing airs, which were sometimes so provoking, though always so ridiculous--"as if one could not have done everything _they_ succeeded in doing if one had cared to try."

That reflection brought perhaps a trifle more colour in her face, and made her shake out the ringlets just a little, till she looked at her partner before her, carefully executing with conscientious precision a gyration in her honour. She could not but smile as she gave him her hand to turn round, and the man looked positively grateful as he received it. Grateful, but was it for the smile or the hand? Yet surely he gave the hand a little squeeze. The man must be growing audacious. And yet he was so respectful. But Mr. Considine she knew was always respectful, and really very nice.

Considine thought it very nice too--did not know, in fact, how long it was since he had enjoyed anything so much. "Amazing fine woman," is how some of his compeers would have expressed their feelings; but Considine did not even pretend to be a _roué_, and he was not a fogy, though quite old enough to have been one, if that had been a necessary phase of existence to pass through. He felt happy with a respectful enjoyment, such as he might have known thirty years earlier, in the recognized season for such things, and he only regretted that it was to end so soon. He wondered if he might venture to ask her to dance again, and that smile we have mentioned, met him, and he thought he would risk it; but alas, the programme had been arranged to suit the younger talent, and this proved to be the last square dance. Then he bethought him of the subscription assemblies, and wondered if Miss Stanley attended them, and then the evolutions of the next figure brought him back to the business in hand.

Muriel and her partner watched him carefully solemnizing the rite with a good deal of amusement. Youth is so graspingly exclusive, and so intolerant. It engrosses the present and claims the future for itself, and accords as little place to its quite recent predecessors, the have beens, as would be given to the ancient kings at Westminster, if they should leave their vaults in the abbey and walk across the street to the hall or the palace over the way.