is element, is flitting from
flower to flower, saying beautiful nothings to any of the girls who are
kind enough or silly enough to waste a moment on so irreclaimable a
butterfly.

He is not so entirely engrossed by his pleasing occupations, however, as
to be lost to the more serious matters that are going on around him. He
is specially struck by the fact that Lady Swansdown, who had been in
charming spirits all through the afternoon, and afterward at dinner, is
now dancing a great deal with Beauclerk, of all people, and making
herself apparently very delightful to him. His own personal belief up to
this had been that she detested Beauclerk, and now to see her smiling
upon him and favoring him with waltz after waltz upsets Dicky's power of
penetration to an almost fatal extent.

"I wonder what the deuce she's up to now," says he to himself, leaning
against the wall behind him, and giving voice unconsciously to the
thoughts within him.

"Eh?" says somebody at his ear.

He looks round hastily to find Miss Maliphant has come to anchor on his
left, and that her eyes, too, are directed on Beauclerk, who with Lady
Swansdown is standing at the lower end of the room.

"Eh, to you," says he brilliantly.

"I always rather fancied that Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Swansdown were
antipathetic," says Miss Maliphant in her usual heavy, downright way.

"There was room for it," says Mr. Browne gloomily.

"For it?"

"Your fancy."

"Yes, so I think. Lady Swansdown has always seemed to me to be
rather--raiher--eh?"

"Decidedly so," agrees Mr. Browne. "And as for Beauclerk, he is quite
too dreadfully 'rather,' don't you think?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. He has often seemed to me a little light, but
only on the surface."

"You've read him," says Mr. Browne with a confidential nod. "Light on
the surface, but deep, deep as a draw well?"

"I don't think I mean what you do," says Miss Maliphant quickly.
"However, we are not discussing Mr. Beauclerk, beyond the fact that we
wonder to see him so genial with Lady Swansdown. They used to be
thoroughly antagonistic, and now--why they seem quite good friends,
don't they? Quite thick, eh?" with her usual graceful phraseology.

"Thick as thieves in Vallambrosa," says Mr. Browne with increasing
gloom. Miss Maliphant turns to regard him doubtfully.

"Leaves?" suggests she.

"Thieves," persists he immovably.

"Oh! Ah! It's a joke perhaps," says she, the doubt growing. Mr. Browne
fixes a