nearer to her, and lays his hand upon the table
close to hers.

"If you really made the suggestion to Clarissa, you deserve some
reward," says Georgie, nodding her head. "Now, what shall it be?"

"Dance half the night with me."

"That would bore you,--and me. No; but if dancing delights
you--sir--may I have the pleasure of the first quadrille?"

"Madam," says Branscombe, laying his hand upon his heart, "you do me
too much honor; I am at your service now and forever."

"It is too large a promise."

"A true one, nevertheless."

A little earnest shade shows itself upon his face, but Georgie laughs
lightly, and moves away from him over to the window, and at this
moment Clarissa returns, armed with paper and pencils and a very much
pleased smile.

"Can't I have the gardens lighted?" she says, "with Chinese lanterns,
and that? I have been thinking of it."

"I don't know about 'that,'" says Dorian. "I'm not sure but it might
blow us all to atoms; but the celestial lights will be quite 'too,
too!' It must be a splendid thing, Clarissa, to have a brain like
yours. Now, neither Miss Broughton nor I have a particle between us."

"Speak for yourself, please," says Miss Broughton, very justly
incensed.

"I'm doing even more than that, I'm speaking for you too. Don't put up
too many Chinese lanterns, Clarissa, or it will be awkward: we shall
be seen."

"What matter? I love light," says Georgie, innocently. "How I do hope
there will be a moon! Not a mean effort at one, but a good, round,
substantial, vast old moon, such as there was two months ago."

* * * * *

She has her wish: such another moonlight night as comes to Pullingham
on the night of Miss Peyton's ball has been rarely, if ever, seen. It
breaks over the whole place in a flood of light so whitely brilliant
that the very sleeping flowers lift up their heads, as though
believing the soft mystic light to be the early birth of morn.

All around is calm and drowsy sweet. The stars come forth to light the
world, and, perhaps, to do homage to Clarissa on this the night of her
first ball.

About six weeks have passed since Ruth Annersley left her home, and as
yet no tidings of her have reached Pullingham. Already people are
beginning to forget that such an _esclandre_ ever occurred in their
quiet village. The minutest inquiries have been made (chiefly by Lord
Sartoris, who is now very seldom at home); rewards offered; numerous
pa