Grace was much too excited to feel keenly the parting with Margaret; indeed, the gravity of her young sister, while, of course, to be accounted for, she felt altogether as a drag upon her energies.

Like other girls of her peculiarly thoughtless nature she hated having to think of anything that was not what she considered cheerful; and she had not the power of throwing herself into the sorrows of any one, even of a sister, whose one fault it was, that she had allowed her clear instincts to be obscured and darkened by her passionate love for Grace, and her wish to give what she thought her very life depended upon at that moment.

Accustomed to be considered, it was new to her to find that she had twice to change her place to suit Lady Lyons, who was one of the women who imagine that, whatever happens to belong to another, from a husband to a corner in a railway-carriage, must be superior to anything they have themselves.

Grace was good-humoured, and changed her seat cheerfully, although she felt the difference. Margaret would have borne any discomfort rather than disturb her. But the thought that she was going to join the world in London and form one of the giddy throng was too enchanting to her not to support her under any surprises—she was so determined to be happy.

She was surprised beyond measure that Margaret's marriage should have left her the winner in the race; but it was satisfactory that, as she cared for money and Margaret did not, she should have it, and Margaret would soon forget that horrible man, who was, however, not all horrible, since he had done this.

"Pray see about your luggage, Miss Rivers," said Lady Lyons, very languidly, when they arrived at the station.

"Surely your maid can do that," said Grace, with a little toss of her head.

"How can she possibly know your luggage when she has never seen it?" asked Lady Lyons, fretfully, but not without a show of reason.

"Maids should have instincts," said Grace, as she sailed along the platform to point out her boxes.

This difficulty overcome they got into a cab, the maid following in another. But, as Lady Lyons was always afraid of being cold, she took a bearskin of some standing, a roll of rugs, and a bottle of lavender-water. She gave the man unnecessarily minute directions, and pulled up her window. It was the last days of a hot June.

Grace let her window down with a bang that very nearly shivered it to atoms.

"My dear Miss Rivers, pray put up the window. I have such a languid circulation, and I am ordered by my medical men to be careful about draughts."

"There really cannot be a draught when one window is hermetically closed," said Grace very coolly; "be as stuffy as you like on your side of the carriage, but I must have fresh air."

Lady Lyons was a little daunted, and said nothing. In a moment or two she began to cough, a short cough improvised for the occasion. Grace took no notice.

"If I am very ill you will have to send to Wandsworth for Mr. Jones," she said, at length.

"Why should you be ill? Fresh air is what you want, Lady Lyons. You are coughing on purpose."

"My dear Miss Rivers."

"Wait till you hear me cough; then you will know a real cough when you hear one," said Grace laughing and putting up a little bit of window. She did not want to quarrel with Lady Lyons, but she did intend to assert her independence from the first.

They went to a private hotel, where again Grace interfered. She would have nothing but the best rooms, and all the little arrangements put forward in an economical form by poor Lady Lyons were ruthlessly swept upon one side.

"I did not come here to economise," said Grace, with a grand air, as they took the rooms in Brook Street.

For the first few days Grace was content, and more than content. She did not care about being seen till she was what she called properly dressed, and she certainly knew what she wanted, and got it, as people usually do when they have the command of money.

Then came the grand question of society, and poor Lady Lyons was completely at a standstill.

"Surely you know a few people, Lady Lyons; some one to make a beginning?"

Lady Lyons reflected.

"I have been out of it so long," she murmured; "yes, there is a very kind friend; I wonder if she is in London?"

"Let us find out," said Grace, ringing for the book, and turning over the leaves rapidly. "What is her name?"

"I—I think it begins with a P," said Lady Lyons; "but, dear me, it is so stupid of me. I cannot remember her name at this moment."

"Your kind friend and you have evidently not been corresponding lately," said Grace, laughing.

"My dear Miss Rivers!"

"Now I have got the P's," said Grace, "and I will run through the list."

"Penshurst!" exclaimed Lady Lyons. "Yes, Penshurst is the name."

"There are seventeen," said Grace, in an aggravated tone, "and they live all over London. What is Mr. Penshurst?"

"I do not know."

"Ha!" said Grace suddenly, "this is funny. Here is a name Penryn. I used to know one of the girls a little, the daughter of Sir Jacob Penryn, and here is his address. I wonder if she would remember me?"

"Was she at school with you?" asked Lady Lyons, with evident relief.

"Oh! dear no. Her father had a place in the neighbourhood and we went there sometimes, my sister and I, because our father had shown some kindness to a son of his who had died."

"But, my dear, that is a very good thing indeed; write at once, and say you have come into a fortune and are here. A beginning! Why he is an M.P., and has his own house in London."

"No, I will not write," said Grace, decidedly, "and my fortune is hardly worth speaking about, but I will call, and if they wish to renew acquaintance they can return it."

With this Lady Lyons had to be satisfied—indeed, she was more than satisfied, as the difficulty seemed to her to be completely overcome. She took heart now and went off on her own account to see a doctor, and paid a good deal to be assured there was nothing whatever seriously the matter with her.

This was hardly what she had expected or what she anticipated—she was not at all sure she was pleased.

Grace in the meantime left her card, and wrote on the top "In London for a short time with Lady Lyons."

In a few days Miss Penryn called, a very nice-looking girl, dressed with extreme simplicity. She apologized for her mother and brought her card, and an invitation from Lady Penryn for a meeting to be held in her house that week.

When she had left, Grace surveyed her elaborate white toilette and thought her lace frills too numerous.

"It is overdone," she said, discontentedly, to Lady Lyons.

"It is very sweet," said Lady Lyons, who was not thinking of her "young friend's" dress, but who was weighing in her own mind the pros and cons in connection with Lady Penryn's meeting.

She wished to make acquaintance; on the other hand she was terribly afraid of having an appeal made to her pocket, and she was one of many who make small payments to stated charities, and do not like spontaneous action.

Grace settled the point for her, saying with her usual nonchalance,

"You will make your first appearance as my chaperone, Lady Lyons."

After that she could make no objection, but she made many inquiries about Lady Penryn.

"What is she like, my dear? Is she nice?"

"I should say that word describes her exactly; my remembrance of her is that she is much too nice; to be sincere, she always said, 'Dear thing!' and got rid of us as soon as possible."

"She may not have liked children," observed Lady Lyons, lucidly.

"Possibly," but Grace did not think that she was much fonder of grown-up people. She and Margaret had always unfavourably contrasted Lady Penryn's neglect and Sir Jacob's heartiness.

"Gratitude about her son," began Lady Lyons, "that must have been there at any rate."

"Oh! the poor man father knew so well was not her son. She has no son. There were two or three by a first wife; this girl is not her daughter."

When Grace and Lady Lyons arrived in Cromwell Road they found the whole place crowded with people, mostly elderly; a few girls, and the men might be counted on their fingers. Papers were handed to them, and Grace with much amusement found that the meeting was convened about woman's suffrage.

Lady Penryn in a rich crimson velvet was very cordial in her reception of both Lady Lyons and Grace, advised them to sit on the right, said they would find plenty of friends, and turned her back upon them to receive somebody else.

Miss Penryn was not there, or, if there, Grace could not see her.

For upwards of two hours they sat in a room which in spite of open windows was stifling, seated on very small cane chairs, and hearing speeches from men and women more or less celebrated, upon a subject they neither of them took the faintest interest in.

No question of the day ever interested Grace. Lady Lyons never understood the question, and the injustice of women who have large control of money, and who contribute largely to the revenue in many ways and yet cannot give a vote, did not give her a pang. She knew that some women had made the subject ridiculous; she was afraid of ridicule, and she did not take the trouble of disentangling the question from the absurdities reared round it, and judging it on its own merits.

"I don't like being here at all," whispered Lady Lyons; "I am so afraid of being taken for a strong-minded woman."

"Pray do not be afraid of that," said Grace, satirically; "that is the very last thing your worst enemy would accuse you of."

The meeting dragged on, and the heat became quite suffocating. All at once Grace gave a little cry, and threw herself back, closing her eyes.

"A lady fainting! Air! Water! Salts! Salvolatile!" shouted dozens of voices at once.

Grace, still with closed eyes, was carried out of the room, where Lady Lyons gladly remained with her, in a small back room, consecrated to Lady Penryn's writings.

When the meeting dispersed she came in to see how Grace was, and was overwhelming in her affectionate attentions.

"Poor dear thing," she said.

"The heat was very great," said Lady Lyons, apologetically.

"Not in my rooms," said Lady Penryn, very decidedly. "The ventilation is admirably done—a private arrangement of my own."

Lady Lyons was too much awed to contradict her.

"Poor dear thing! how do you feel now?" said Lady Lyons, turning again to Grace.

"I feel better, Lady Lyons, and we will go home," said Grace. "And Lady Penryn, I must apologise for disturbing you all. What funny things everybody said. Do you really believe in all that was said to-day?"

Lady Penryn coughed gently.

"My dear, the object of a meeting is to ventilate the subject."

"Oh! I see. Well then, you do not mind my saying that it all struck me as very absurd!"

"The question in itself is not absurd; and it should interest the moneyed class; and it is of general interest."

"Then it should interest me, as I am one of the moneyed class," laughed Grace; "at least, I have an income all to myself."

She was amused to see Lady Penryn look at her with redoubled interest when she made this statement.

"Let us trust, dear child, that you will use your wealth wisely. Now will you not have some tea or wine?" she continued, waxing hospitable.

Lady Lyons accepted, and they went downstairs before they left. Lady Penryn came up to Grace with a good deal of grace, and kissed her on both cheeks.

"For the sake of old times," she said, plaintively.

"She is a sweet young thing," she continued, "and has fulfilled the promise of her youth;" and Grace noted that she took care not to introduce either of the men standing near.

"We will soon meet again, I trust," she said, in a pathetic voice.

"That depends upon you," said Grace, quietly. "When you return our visit I hope we shall be at home."

"Ah! till then, good-bye. Sweet thing—good-bye."

"Sweet thing!—good-bye," mimicked Grace, as they got into the brougham.

"Oh! my dear, hush!—some one might hear you."

"Yes, the coachman. I think we had better pursue your Mrs. Penshurst."

"If I could but remember anything about her husband—but I do not. I lay awake for half-an-hour last night, and I cannot recall his Christian name. It may be Charles, but I think it is John—no, it may be James," and Lady Lyons looked blankly before her.

Grace threw herself back in the brougham with a good deal of petulance. They had been three weeks in London and had not achieved a single acquaintance.

As the carriage turned into Brook Street Grace suddenly caught sight of Sir Albert Gerald. She pulled the check-string, and called him by name.

Much surprised, he turned round and came up to her. She was so near Margaret that it was a pleasure to meet her.

"Come and see me," said Grace: "come to tea. This is Lady Lyons. I want particularly to see you—can you come to-morrow?"

"If you could see me early—but I leave town to-morrow afternoon for a few days."

"I will see you at any time. Eleven in the morning will find me clothed and in my right mind, in the stuffy little sitting-room we call our own."

"Till then, good-bye," he said, stepping back, and raising his hat.

"That poor girl looks frightfully ill," he thought, "as if she had not very long to live;" and he went on from this idea to think of Margaret. What a curious difference there was between the two sisters—the one so calm and sweet and so thoughtful, the other so restless and so frivolous.

He kept his word, however, and found Grace in a flutter of spirits, a huge Peerage and the Morning Post in front of her.

It was evident that there was some request trembling on her tongue, and that she was longing for the first conventional phrases to be over; the inquiries about Margaret were answered so indifferently, and Grace was all the time keeping a place in the Peerage open with a finger of her left hand.

"Now, Sir Albert, I do want you to do something for me," she said, with more earnestness than she had yet shown.

"If I can," he said, seriously.

"Yes, you can if you will."

"AprÈs?" he asked.

"The Duchess of Mallington is going to give a big 'at-home.' She is your aunt. She is also going to give a ball. Could you not get a card for Lady Lyons and for me to one or other?"

"I think I could," he said; "she's a very dear old lady and I could ask her. She may refuse but I do not think she will."

"Sir Albert, excuse the strength of my language, but you are a darling, there!" exclaimed Grace, laughing and colouring a little. "You do not know how I long to go to just one swell ball, to see it all. It is so dreary moving about in this big place and knowing not one single soul."

"I am sure it must be," said Sir Albert, sympathetically; "it is very natural you should wish to see it all for yourself. I am afraid you will not enjoy it, but I think I can get you the invitation."

"I am sure to enjoy it," and Grace clapped her hands with delight. "Do you not enjoy it?"

"Not much now," he said; "I am very fond of certain people, and I find every one very kind. I like to meet pleasant people in moderation, but I do not go in for much gaiety."

"Only think!" said Grace; "I have never in all my life been to a good, big ball, never!"

"The novelty may amuse you certainly; the only thing is, that if you do not know many people it is very dull looking on and seeing others dancing and talking. If I am there I can take care of you and introduce some men to you at any rate."

"You certainly are a most delightful friend," said Grace, enthusiastically, "and I really do not know how to thank you enough!"

"It is a great pleasure doing anything for you, Miss Rivers. I think you know why!"

"Oh, yes, indeed I do. It is for Margaret."

"Did she tell you I met her accidentally? I got into her railway-carriage without knowing she was there."

"She never told me," said Grace; "Mr. Stevens escorted her till all the changes and junctions and things were passed."

"Who is Mr. Stevens?"

"He was Mr. Drayton's manager, and mixed up in his affairs. I thought you might have seen him at Wandsworth. He came to the rescue at that terrible time."

"I saw no one but her then," he said, in a lower voice. "Miss Rivers, do you think she will forget all that frightful business?"

"I think she will: at least, her letters are much less heart-broken than they were. I think she rather nursed her sorrow at Wandsworth. Then she took to going to see sick children and giving away all her money, and she began to get better."

"She gave away all her money?"

"Every farthing he left her. Yes, she would not keep even one hundred pounds a year, nor a hundred pence. She could not bear touching his money."

"I am so glad!" he said, fervently.

"Really?" Grace said, in a curious tone.

Sir Albert coloured, and said,

"It is pleasant when a character we admire is consistent."

"Margaret is very consistent."

"She is everything a high-minded woman should be," he answered, earnestly; "I am quite sure we agree in our ideas of her."

"Perhaps we do; but you express it better than I do: and my sister is too good for me. I admire her, but she is so far above me that there is not full sympathy between us."

"But there might be," he said, in his quiet voice; "to live with some one having a high aim must help one."

"It does not help me," said Grace, sharply, but with an accent of pain in her voice; throwing off any feeling weighing with her she added, in a laughing tone, "It gives me a crick in my neck."

She puzzled him. It was painful to him to see her so delicate and thinking of nothing but amusement, but he could not judge; and through the flippant tone broke so much real feeling that he knew she spoke much more lightly than she felt. She was Margaret's sister, and he would do his utmost for her amusement. Instead of leaving London as he had intended doing, he would remain and go to this ball and to others, and do his utmost to enable her to enjoy it.

The Duchess's card and the invitation were handed to Lady Lyons; and her first idea was that it was a mistake. Grace interposed.

"It is all right, Lady Lyons; of course the Duchess could not ask me without you, and I know some of her family."

Lady Lyons was most deeply impressed.

"My dear! I never was in the same room with a duchess before; it is very delightful."

"l do not suppose she is different from other people," said Grace, indifferently.

"I hope it is not a case of a new gown—I really cannot afford it," and Lady Lyons looked really troubled.

"As I am dragging you to the party, I will find the gown," said Grace, laughing; "leave it to me."

This card was not the only one that came on that and the following days, and Grace was quite enchanted, though she professed to be prepared for this, and any thing else that might befall her.

Lady Lyons was not quite happy. She was by nature indolent, and she was easily fatigued. Women who assume the habits of an invalid, soon become invalids in reality. She loved going to bed at nine o'clock and being read to sleep; indeed, with a vague idea that Grace intended to make herself useful to her, she had said something about the reading, and the peculiarities of her maid's pronunciation, but Grace was too wise to begin by doing anything that might be a tax upon her in future, and she laughed the idea to scorn—"besides," she added, and with truth, "with my delicate chest, the exertion would be very bad for me."

But, as Lady Lyons loved going to bed early, the prospect of being out of it for an indefinite number of hours was not amusing; still the thoughts of seeing so many people, known only through the newspapers, sustained her.

She gave many sighs, however, in private; Grace half thought of persuading her to go to bed early in the afternoon, but for a well-founded conviction that, if she did, she would in all probability not get up again; but she did get her to drink strong coffee, and that, and the sight of her new dress, kept her comfortably awake.

Grace appeared, radiant, her inexperience making her punctual. She had a very simple white gown, and looked well.

When they arrived they found themselves very nearly the first, and quite the first of the strangers asked.

Lady Lyons looked about for the great lady and could not see her. At that moment a kind little old lady held out her hand—asked the black and white gentleman doubling himself in two before her to repeat the names, and Lady Lyons and Miss Withers was the result shouted into her Grace's deaf ears.

Grace was half annoyed and half amused. She went to a sofa near, and sat down watching the arrivals, and being entertained by the talk going on between a plain clever looking girl, with a quantity of red hair, and some older girls, who stood caressing their elbows in the doorway very affectionately.

"The dear Duchess has a funnier mixture than ever, to-night, apparently," said the eldest maiden, who had on a crushed looking dress, and who used an eyeglass very freely when she neglected her elbows for a moment.

"Yes, dear old thing! she is so kind-hearted, she never can say no. You cannot conceive anything so funny as the mob coming to-night."

"What makes her do it?"

"Good-nature; she says people like to come because she has a big house, and can give them a good supper, and why should she not?" and the girl laughed.

"She is rather a trial in some things. You have no idea how young men fly her. She is so sorry for plain girls that she marches them up, whether they like it or not, and introduces them straight off. I assure you she has carried off my pet partners under my very eyes, and made them dance with lamp-posts and billiard-balls."

"My dear," whispered Lady Lyons in a very discreet whisper, "what does she mean by that? How can a man dance with——?"

"Oh! do you really not understand?" said Grace, impatiently; "tall girls and very short ones."

"Oh!" and Lady Lyons drew a very long breath.

No band, no music, and hardly any men. It was going to be a very queer ball, Grace thought. An hour and a half passed in this way. As a rule, people wore gowns that had seen the brunt of the season—no one was very smart except as regarded jewels. A great many people had beautiful diamonds on, and some had good lace, but the majority, knowing what a crowd there would be, had left lace at home.

The band arrived and began playing two or three bars of well-known valses and then stopping. Then, all at once, there was a sudden stream of people, the rooms filled all at once, and dancing began. But only in a limited space; it began all over the large room, three or four circles beginning at once.

The sound of the music, the sight of others doing what she would like to do, filled Grace with despair. She did not know a soul, and nobody looked at her or noticed her in any way. Dance after dance went on, and the girl felt really forlorn—tears of vexation rose in her eyes and nearly overflowed.

Lady Lyons fidgeted.

"I think the Duchess might find you a partner," she said, huffily; "and what an uncomfortable sofa! I wish for my part that I was safe at home again."

And Grace very nearly said,

"So do I!"

A funny looking little man, with curiously small eyes and a big head, passed and re-passed, looking along the benches, sliding behind the crowd, which seemed to increase every moment. As he passed he saw Grace's wistful eyes, and he went on.

Returning, he was accompanied by a tall fine looking, middle-aged man; they approached, and her heart beat high with hope; this little man was some relation, and he had found her a partner.

Delightful delusion born to be dispelled. The tall man bowed to Lady Lyons, and then said,

"Her Grace has asked me to introduce Mr. Bott to you and your niece; he is anxious to persuade her to try this valse;" and without seeing Grace (unless, as she thought angrily, he could see her without looking at her) he bowed himself away again.

Grace's mortification knew no bounds. To make her first public appearance dancing with this peculiar looking man was very terrible to her, but to sit for a whole evening behind the backs (and very ample backs) of sundry dowagers, who either preferred standing or could find no seats to their liking, seemed the only other alternative, and still more intolerable to her.

She rose and moved with him, a little surprised at the way he glided through the dense crowd, making room for her behind him.

She had been considered at school a perfect dancer, but dancing well with mankind requires practice which she had never had, and this little man danced abominably. He had all possible defects, and did as nearly as he could every single thing he ought not to have done.

He could not steer. He had no confidence, and he got out of nobody's way. Grace's ears got red and tingled, and her whole face flushed with wounded vanity.

After two or three struggles, in which they were ignominiously worsted, she stopped and gazed at the soft, gliding motion of happier girls, with a feeling of anger and desperation.

Then coming towards her, she saw a couple moving with an inexpressibly graceful air, and recognised Sir Albert Gerald.

Forgetful of everything, but that she saw at last one face she knew, she stepped forward and pronounced his name.

Sir Albert laughingly bowed and swung on without stopping.

Tears rose in her eyes, and, turning to Mr. Bott, she said—

"I do not feel well. Will you take me to Lady Lyons?"

He obeyed in silence, so deeply offended with her for her manner, showed evident want of appreciation or his dancing, that he made no effort to persuade her to have some refreshment instead, and bowing, turned away immediately.

"Let us go home, Lady Lyons; I am so tired."

"And have no supper! I have been longing to have something to eat. I declare, sitting on this hard bench and doing penance, makes one desperately hungry; and I am here on your account, my dear."

"How can we go to supper without any one to take us?"

"We can go by ourselves—several people have done it already—do come."

Just as Grace was complying with her request, she was stopped by Sir Albert Gerald, who brought a young man—a very young man—up to Grace, and introduced him.

"I am coming to claim a dance soon," he said; "I saw you suffering martyrdom with poor little Bott. It was very good of you to give him a dance."

"I could not help myself," said Grace, her spirits restored immediately by this change in her prospects of enjoyment; "he was the only person introduced to me."

"Bott always manages to find a new victim," said the man introduced by Sir Albert—a Mr. Powis. "Do you want to have supper? Oh! I see, the old lady does. Come along, Gerald; we will have supper all together," and Lady Lyons was soon as perfectly happy as she could be while half dead from want of sleep.