erness," begins Clarissa, beating about the
bush: she is quite determined, nevertheless, that Georgie shall not be
neglected or left out in the cold at this her first ball.

"A governess!" says Dorian, unthinkingly. "Oh, Clarissa, don't let me
in for that. I don't _mind_ them a bit; but I'm afraid of them. She is
safe to ask me if I don't think Murray's Grammar the most artfully
compiled book in the world, and I shan't know what to say in reply."

"You need not be afraid of my governess," says Clarissa, earnestly:
"she will not trouble you about Murray or his Grammar."

"Of course, if you say I must dance with her, I must," says
Branscombe, with a heavy sigh.

"I see her now. Come, let me introduce you to her."

"But not for this dance. I am engaged--I am, I give you my word--to
the prettiest girl in the room,--the prettiest child, I should say."

"You can dance with your child, of course; but at least let me
introduce you to my friend."

With a faint and carefully subdued shrug he submits to the inevitable,
and goes where Clarissa leads. He finds himself presently at the other
end of the room, near where a little dainty black-robed figure stands,
with three men before her, all evidently possessed with an
overpowering desire to inscribe their names upon the morsel of tinted
and gilded paper she holds in her hand.

Her large blue eyes are almost black with excitement; her lips are
parted, and, like Herrick's "Julia," are like "rubies," soft and rich.
She is glancing up, in a little puzzled fashion, at the tall fair man
who is bending over her whilst going through the usual formula, "May I
have the pleasure," etc.

"Well, where is this dreadful woman?" says Dorian, at this moment,
almost impatiently; he is watching Georgie and the fair man, and feels
distinctly savage.

"Why, here," says Clarissa.

"Here? Not the--the girl in black, talking to Bellew!"

"Yes; that is your dreadful woman."

"Oh, look here, you know, it is too absurd," says Dorian, with a low
laugh. "I have danced twice with her already, and am engaged to her
for this!"

"She is your 'child,' then?" asks Clarissa, opening her eyes.

"Yes; but a governess, my dear Clarissa?"

"She is teaching the Redmond children. I told you so at the concert."

"I quite forgot,--utterly. How could one think of her as that, you
know?"

"Now, please, do try and write plainly," breaks in Georgie's voice,
plaintively. "Up to this I have not been able to r