of mud below? The drama in muslin was
again unfolded, and she could read each act; and there was a 'curtain'
at the end of each. The first was made of young, hopeful faces, the
second of arid solicitation, the third of the bitter, malignant tongues
of Bertha Duffy and her friend. She had begun to experience the worst
horrors of a Castle ball. She was sick of pity for those around her, and
her lofty spirit resented the insult that was being offered to her sex.

'Have you been long here, Miss Barton?' She looked up. Harding was by
her! 'I have been looking out for you, but the crowd is so great that it
is hard to find anyone.'

'I think we arrived about a quarter to eleven,' Alice answered.

Then, after a pause, Harding said: 'Will you give me this waltz?' She
assented, and, as they made their way through the dancers, he added:
'But I believe you do not care about dancing. If you'd prefer it, we
might go for a walk down the room. Perhaps you'd like an ice? This is
the way to the buffet.'

But Alice and Harding did not stop long there; they were glad to leave
the heat of gas, the odour of sauces, the effervescence of the wine, the
detonations of champagne, the tumult of laughter, the racing of plates,
the heaving of bosoms, the glittering of bodices, for the peace and the
pale blue refinement of the long blue drawing-room. How much of our
sentiments and thoughts do we gather from our surroundings; and the
shining blue of the turquoise-coloured curtains, the pale dead-blue of
the Louis XV. furniture, and the exquisite fragility of the glass
chandeliers, the gold mirrors rutilant with the light of some hundreds
of tall wax candles, were illustrative of the light dreams and delicate
lassitude that filled the souls of the women as they lay back whispering
to their partners, the crinolettes lifting the skirts over the edges of
the sofas. Here the conversation seems serious, there it is smiling, and
broken by the passing and repassing of a fan.

'Only four days more of Dublin,' said Harding; 'I have settled, or
rather the fates have settled, that I am to leave next Saturday.'

'And where are you going? to London?'

'Yes, to London. I am sorry I am leaving so soon; but it can't be
helped. I have met many nice people here--some of whom I shall not be
able to forget.'

'You speak as if it were necessary to forget them--it is surely always
better to remember.'

'I shall remember you.'

'Do you think you will?'

At this