esolate as she might be,
she would not descend so far as that, when, in a moment, another
gentleman sprang in, as it were, between her and her enemy, and
addressed her with free and easy speech as though he had known her
all her life. "You are Ayala Dormer, I am sure," said he. She looked
up into his face and nodded her head at him in her own peculiar way.
She was quite sure that she had never set her eyes on him before.
He was so ugly that she could not have forgotten him. So at least
she told herself. He was very, very ugly, but his voice was very
pleasant. "I knew you were, and I am Jonathan Stubbs. So now we are
introduced, and you are to come and dance with me."

She had heard the name of Jonathan Stubbs. She was sure of that,
although she could not at the moment join any facts with the name.
"But I don't know you," she said, hesitating. Though he was so ugly
he could not but be better than that ancient dancer whom she saw
standing at a distance, looking like a dog that has been deprived of
his bone.

"Yes, you do," said Jonathan Stubbs, "and if you'll come and dance
I'll tell you about it. The Marchesa told me to take you."

"Did she?" said Ayala, getting up, and putting her little hand upon
his arm.

"I'll go and fetch her if you like; only she's a long way off, and we
shall lose our place. She's my aunt."

"Oh," said Ayala, quite satisfied,--remembering now that she had
heard her friend Nina boast of a Colonel cousin, who was supposed
to be the youngest Colonel in the British army, who had done some
wonderful thing,--taken a new province in India, or marched across
Africa, or defended the Turks,--or perhaps conquered them. She knew
that he was very brave,--but why was he so very ugly? His hair was
ruby red, and very short; and he had a thick red beard: not silky,
but bristly, with each bristle almost a dagger,--and his mouth was
enormous. His eyes were very bright, and there was a smile about him,
partly of fun, partly of good humour. But his mouth! And then that
bristling beard! Ayala was half inclined to like him, because he
was so completely master of himself, so unlike the unhappy ancient
gentleman who was still hovering at a distance. But why was he so
ugly? And why was he called Jonathan Stubbs?

"There now," he said, "we can't get in at any of the sets. That's
your fault."

"No, it isn't," said Ayala.

"Yes, it is. You wouldn't stand up till you had heard all about me."

"I don't know anythin