d the Squire again looked anxiously
round for instructions from his wife; but Pansey Cottrell was now
standing between Lady Mary and the card-table, and such inspiration as
might be derived from his back was sole response to the inquiry.

"Excuse me," said Jim, "we can't have people making up their mind about
ball-going on Sundays. Ball-dresses, however perfect, nearly always
want a little something doing to them at the last, don't they, Mrs.
Sartoris? Besides, vacillation spoils slumber. I am only anxious that
you shall lay your head tranquilly on your pillow, like myself, with
your mind made up to do a good and virtuous action."

"Come, I say," cried the Squire, chuckling, "that's rather tall talk,
you know. I never heard going to a ball called a 'good and virtuous
action' before."

"Well, perhaps not," replied Jim; "but it is, comparatively, you know,
when you think of the many worse things you might do;--Stay at home
here, for instance, trump your partner's thirteenth, revoke, lose your
money and your temper."

"You make out a good case, Jim," said the Squire, laughing. "I suppose
we must go, lest, as you say, worse should come to us."

As these two latter speeches reached her ears, Lady Mary felt that she
could have boxed those of her son with exceeding satisfaction, and so
wandered in her attention to Pansey Cottrell's narrative as to occasion
that gentleman, who was perfectly aware of the disturbing influence,
infinite amusement. As a _causeur_ of some repute in his own
estimation, he considered himself in duty bound to take vengeance for
such negligence, and spun out his story to its extreme attenuation
before suffering his hostess to escape. At length released, Lady Mary
crosses to the whist-table; but the conversation has dropped. Jim has
moved to another part of the room; and that the Todborough Grange party
shall go to the ball is an accepted fact. To revive the subject now
Lady Mary felt would be useless, but she made up her mind somewhat
spitefully that her lord should hear a little more about it before he
slept.

"Rather a sudden change in the wind," said Lionel Beauchamp, as he lit
Miss Bloxam's candle in the hall: "instead of being dead against, it
seems to be blowing quite a gale in the direction of the Commonstone
ball. I suppose you will go too, if the rest do?"

"Yes," she replied mendaciously. "I don't care in the least about it,
but suppose, like all minorities, I shall have to