me on the stairs, and told me he must catch the last
car to Knype.'

'Our dance, I think, Miss Rose,' said a young man with a gardenia, and
Rose, flushed and sparkling, was carried off. The ball proceeded.

* * * * *

John Stanway had a singular capacity for not enjoying himself on those
social occasions when to enjoy one's self is a duty to the company. But
this evening, as the hour advanced, he showed the symptoms of a sharp
attack of gaiety such as visited him from time to time. He and Dr.
Hawley and Dain formed an ebullient centre of high spirits, and they
upheld the ancient traditions; they professed a liking for old-fashioned
dances, and for old-fashioned ways of dancing the steps which modern
enthusiasm for the waltz had not extinguished. And they found an
appreciable number of followers. The organisers of the ball, the
upholders of correctness, punctilio, and the mode, fretted and fought
against the antagonistic influence. 'Ass!' said the conductor of the
opera bitterly when Harry Burgess told him that Stanway had suggested
Sir Roger de Coverley for an extra, 'I wonder what his wife thinks of
him!' Sir Roger de Coverley was not danced, but twenty or thirty late
stayers, with Stanway and Dain in charge, crossed hands in a circle and
sang 'Auld Lang Syne' at the close. It was one of those incredible
things that can only occur between midnight and cock-crow. During this
revolting rite, the conductor and his friends sought sanctuary in the
refreshment-room. Leonora, Ethel, and Milly were also there, but Rose
and the lady-member of the School Board had remained upstairs to sing
'Auld Lang Syne.'

'Now, girls,' said Stanway with loud good humour, invading the select
apartment with his followers, 'time to go. Carpenter's been waiting
half-an-hour. Your foot all right again, Nora?'

'Quite,' she replied. 'Are you really ready?'

She had so interminably waited that she could not believe the evening to
be at length actually finished.

They all exchanged adieux, Stanway and his cronies effusively, the
opposing and outraged faction with a certain fine acrimony. 'Good-night,
Fred,' said John, throwing a backward patronising glance at Ryley, who
had strolled uneasily into the room. The young man paused before
replying. 'Good-night,' he said stiffly, and his demeanour indicated:
'Do not patronise me too much.' Fred could not dance, but he had
audaciously sat out four dances with Ethel, a