that she would," said he, with a little hesitation; but
at this moment some other claimant came forward, and he turned away to
seek young Ogilvie once more.

"Ogilvie," said he, "who is that lady in the green satin?"

"The Duchess of Wexford."

"Has she a Fund?"

"A what?"

"A Fund--a charitable Fund of some sort."

"Oh, let me see. I think she is getting up money for a new training
ship--turning the young ragamuffins about the streets into sailors,
don't you know."

"Do you think Miss White would give a morning performance for that
Fund?"

"Miss White! Miss White! Miss White!" said Lieutenant Ogilvie. "I think
Miss White has got into your head."

"But the lady asked me."

"Well, I should say it was exactly the thing that Miss White would like
to do--get mixed up with a whole string of duchesses and
marchionessses--a capital advertisement--and it would be all the more
distinguished if it was an amateur performance, and Miss Gertrude White
the only professional admitted into the charmed circle."

"You are a very shrewd boy, Ogilvie," Macleod observed, "I don't know
how you ever got so much wisdom into so small a head."

And indeed, as Lieutenant Ogilvie was returning to Aldershot by what he
was pleased to call the cold-meat train, he continued to play the part
of mentor for a time with great assiduity, until Macleod was fairly
confused with the number of persons to whom he was introduced, and the
remarks his friend made about them. What struck him most, perhaps, was
the recurrence of old Highland or Scotch family names, borne by persons
who were thoroughly English in their speech and ways. Fancy a Gordon who
said "lock" for "loch;" a Mackenzie who had never seen the Lewis; a Mac
Alpine who had never heard the proverb, "The hills, the Mac Alpines, and
the devil came into the world at the same time!"

It was a pretty scene: and he was young, and eager, and curious, and he
enjoyed it. After standing about for half an hour or so, he got into a
corner from which, in quiet, he could better see the brilliant picture
as a whole: the bright, harmonious dresses; the glimpses of beautiful
eyes and blooming complexions; the masses of foxgloves which Lady
Beauregard had as the only floral decoration of the evening; the pale
canary-colored panels and silver-fluted columns of the walls; and over
all the various candelabra, each bearing a cluster of sparkling and
golden stars. But there was something wanted. Was it the