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n an access of further senility, he fumbled with his fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and even in his old age he was handsome beyond other men--standing an upright six feet two. The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss Millicent Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager dancers anxious to insert their names in some corner of her card. She was the fashion at that time. And she probably did not know that at least half of the men crowded round because the other half were there. Nothing succeeds like the success that knows how to draw a crowd. She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each in turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not be expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle intimation that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her success. "She is having an excellent time," said Sir John, weighing on the modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own. "Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little," answered the lady. "Nor I. It will not last." "Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds." "Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least LOOK as if they were going to last. The full-blown roses do not." Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between them. She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time that was no more. The man seemed to be content that the past had been lived through and would never renew itself. "After all," she said, "she is my sister's child. The sympathy may only be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once. Was I? You can tell me." She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew that she was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell her; and he did not like it. "No," he answered readily. "And what was the difference?" She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned demureness. "Their name is legion, for they are many." "Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?" He smiled--a wise, old, woman-searching smile. "You were better-looking than that," he said, with a glance beneath his lashl
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