"he's goin' to marry a
young lady at home, in London; a young lady of fashion, as they say--one
of them that's got one smile for men and another for women. Not his
sort, as I should have thought myself, knowin' him as I do."

"Then why does he marry her?" asked Marie.

"Ah!" Joseph rose, and stretched out his arms with a freedom from
restraint learnt in the barrack-room. "There you're asking me more than
I can tell you. I suppose--it's the old story--I suppose he thinks that
she is his sort."

CHAPTER XXIX. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE

The pride that prompts the bitter jest.

A space had with some difficulty been cleared at the upper end of an
aristocratic London drawing-room, and with considerable enthusiasm Miss
Fitzmannering pranced into the middle of it. Miss Fitzmannering had
kindly allowed herself to be persuaded to do "only a few steps" of
her celebrated skirt-dance. Miss Eline Fitzmannering officiated at
the piano, and later on, while they were brushing their hair, they
quarrelled because she took the time too quickly.

The aristocratic assembly looked on with mixed feelings, and faces
suitable to the same. The girls who could not skirt-dance yawned behind
their fans--gauze preferred, because the Fitzmannerings could see
through gauze if they could not see through anything else. The gifted
products of fashionable Brighton schools, who could in their own way
make exhibitions of themselves also, wondered who on earth had taught
Miss Fitzmannering; and the servants at the door felt ashamed of
themselves without knowing why.

Miss Fitzmannering had practised that skirt-dance--those few
steps--religiously for the last month. She had been taught those
same contortions by a young lady in THE profession, whom even Billy
Fitzmannering raised his eyebrows at. And every one knows that Billy
is not particular. The performance was not graceful, and the gentlemen
present, who knew more about dancing--skirt or otherwise--than they
cared to admit, pursed up the corners of their mouths and looked
straight in front of them--afraid to meet the eye of some person or
persons undefined.

But the best face there was that of Sir John Meredith. He was not
bored, as were many of his juniors--at least, he did not look it. He
was neither shocked nor disgusted, as apparently were some of his
contemporaries--at least, his face betrayed neither of those emotions.
He was keenly interested--suavely attentive. He followed each