inable, but at the 'private dance'
afterwards those who were known in official circles, or were fortunate
enough to meet their friends, amused themselves. It took place in the
Throne-Room. As the guests arrived they scanned each other narrowly.
People who had known each other from childhood upwards, as they met on
the landing, affected a look of surprise: 'Oh, so you are here? I wonder
how you got your invitation? Well, I suppose you are better than I took
you to be!' Acquaintances saluted each other more cordially than was
their wont: he or she who had dined at the Castle took his or her place
at once among the _elite;_ he or she who had come to dance was
henceforth considered worthy of a bow in Grafton Street. For Dublin is a
city without a conviction, without an opinion. Things are right and
wrong according to the dictum of the nearest official. If it be not
absolutely ill-bred to say you think this, or are inclined to take such
or such a view, it is certainly more advisable to say that the
Attorney-General thinks so, or that on one occasion you heard the State
Steward, the Chamberlain, or any other equally distinguished underling,
express this or that opinion. Castle tape is worn in time of mourning
and in the time of feasting. Every gig-man in the Kildare Street wears
it in his buttonhole, and the ladies of Merrion Square are found to be
gartered with it.

Mrs. Barton's first thought was to get Olive partners. Milord and Lord
Rosshill were sent hither and thither, and with such good result that
the whole evening the beauty was beset with A.D.C.'s. But the Marquis
had danced three times with Violet Scully, and Mrs. Barton vented her
anger on poor Alice. The girl knew no one, nor was there time to
introduce her to men. She was consequently sent off with Milord to see
where the Marquis was hiding; and she was commissioned to tell her
sister to answer thus when Lord Kilcarney asked for another dance: 'I am
engaged, _cher marquis_, but for you, of course, I shall have to throw
some poor fellow over.' Mrs. Barton did not know how to play a waiting
game. Her tactics were always to grapple with the enemy. She was a
Hannibal: she risked all to gain all. Mrs. Scully, on the contrary,
watched the combat from afar--as Moltke did the German lines when they
advanced upon Paris.

The Bartons were not invited to the next private dance, which was
annoying, and after long conjecturing as to the enemy that had served
them this tric