“She is having an excellent time,” said Sir John, weighing on the modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own.
“Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her—a little,” answered the lady.
“Nor I. It will not last.”
“Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds.”
“Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least look as if they were going to last. The full-blown roses do not.”
Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between them. She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time that was no more. The man seemed to be content that the past had been lived through and would never renew itself.
“After all,” she said, “she is my sister’s child. The sympathy may only be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once. Was I? You can tell me.”
She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew that she was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell her; and he did not like it.
“No,” he answered readily.
“And what was the difference?”
She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned demureness.
“Their name is legion, for they are many.”
“Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?”
He smiled—a wise, old, woman-searching smile.
“You were better-looking than that,” he said, with a glance beneath his lashless lids. “Moreover, there was more of the grand lady about you. You behaved better. There was less shaking hands with your partners, less nodding and becking, and none of that modern forwardness which is called, I believe, camaraderie.”
“Thank you, Sir John,” she answered, looking at him frankly with a pleasant smile. “But it is probable that we had the faults of our age.”
He fumbled at his lips, having reasons of his own for disliking too close a scrutiny of his face.
“That is more than probable,” he answered, rather indistinctly.
“Then,” she said, tapping the back of his gloved hand with her fan, “we ought to be merciful to the faults of a succeeding generation. Tell me who is that young man with the long stride who is getting himself introduced now.”
“That,” answered Sir John, who prided himself upon knowing everyone—knowing who they were and who they were not—“is young Oscard.”
“Son of the eccentric Oscard?”
“Son of the eccentric Oscard.”
“And where did he get that brown face?”
“He got that in Africa, where he has been shooting. He forms part of someone else’s bag at the present moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“He has been apportioned a dance. Your fair niece has bagged him.”
If he had only known it, Guy Oscard won the privilege of a waltz by the same brown face which Lady Cantourne had so promptly noted. Coupled with a sturdy uprightness of carriage, this raised him at a bound above the pallid habitués of ballroom and pavement. It was, perhaps, only natural that Millicent Chyne should have noted this man as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was as remarkable as some free and dignified denizen of the forest in the midst of domestic animals. She mentally put him down for a waltz, and before five minutes had elapsed he was bowing before her while a mutual friend murmured his name. One does not know how young ladies manage these little affairs, but the fact remains that they are managed. Moreover, it is a singular thing that the young persons who succeed in the ballroom rarely succeed on the larger and rougher floor of life. Your belle of the ball, like your Senior Wrangler, never seems to do much afterwards—and Afterwards is Life.
The other young men rather fell back before Guy Oscard—scared, perhaps, by his long stride, and afraid that he might crush their puny toes. This enabled Miss Chyne to give him the very next dance, of which the music was commencing.
“I feel rather out of all this,” said Oscard, as they moved away together. “You must excuse uncouthness.”
“I see no signs of it,” laughed Millicent. “You are behaving very nicely. You cannot help being larger and stronger than—the others. I should say it was an advantage and something to be proud of.”
“Oh, it is not that,” replied Oscard; “it is a feeling of unkemptness and want of smartness among these men who look so clean and correct. Shall we dance?”
He looked down at her, with an admiration which almost amounted to awe, as if afraid of entering the throng with such a dainty and wonderful charge upon his powers of steering. Millicent Chyne saw the glance and liked it. It was different from the others, quite devoid of criticism, rather simple and full of honest admiration. She was so beautiful that she could hardly be expected to be unaware of the fact. She had merely to make comparisons, to look in the mirror and see that her hair was fairer and softer, that her complexion was more delicately perfect, that her slight, rounded figure was more graceful than any around her. Added to this, she knew that she had more to say than other girls—a larger stock of those little frivolous, advice-seeking, aid-demanding nothings than her compeers seemed to possess.
She knew that in saying them she could look brighter and prettier and more intelligent than her competitors.
“Yes,” she said, “let us dance by all means.”
Here also she knew her own proficiency, and in a few seconds she found that her partner was worthy of her skill.
“Where have you been?” she asked presently. “I am sure you have been away somewhere, exploring or something.”
“I have only been in Africa,
