The appearance of Sir Albert Gerald on the scene of action had a magical effect upon Grace. Every trace of fatigue vanished. She was once again bright, happy, careless, and full of enjoyment; once again the music charmed her, and once again she was glad to be there.

Supper over, Sir Albert found a more comfortable seat for Lady Lyons, and introduced her to a lady sitting there, who eyed her smart clothes with a little suspicion till the Duchess addressed a few kind words to her, when she discovered immediately that they had much in common.

Lady Lyons indeed was overflowing with content to find some one to talk to, after prolonged silence, in the first place; and, in the next, to discover that they had been disappointed in the same doctor, liked the same food, and had the same symptoms; this made the ball enjoyable indeed, and she did not care now how long Grace stayed.

In the meantime Grace realised her dreams; she floated round the room, though her appearance was a little marred by the peculiar position of her head and a certain stiffness in her action.

"You must trust more to me and be a little less timid," said Mr. Powis, when he, in his turn, took her round the room; "one can see you are out of practice."

Grace did not tell him it was quite her first ball.

She danced without stopping; she would not take it quietly; she did want this one ball to be full of happiness, and she was encouraged by the laughing compliments of young Powis, who, himself a noted athlete and in excellent condition, could have danced for hours, and, to use his own expression, "not turn a hair."

Grace's lips got very white, and Sir Albert more than once remonstrated with her and with her partner.

"Has Gerald got anything to do with you?" he asked, with some temper. "What makes him interfere?"

"I am sure I don't know," Grace answered with a ghastly smile; "but you see I don't mind. Let us go on."

"What a brick you are!" he said, as they once more started. Arrived at the end of the long room, there was suddenly a great commotion, and Mr. Powis was shocked to find his "brick" of a partner fall back in a perfectly dead faint, in the arms of some of those lookers-on always standing about in a ball-room.

She was quickly carried into a small sitting-room, where they scattered one or two people holding interesting conversations there.

There was one chief idea present to every one, the Duchess must not be disturbed and the ball not for a second interrupted.

Grace was very long coming round, and then she owned herself too ill to stay.

Lady Lyons was found without much difficulty, and the two left the brilliant scene as soon as possible.

Young Powis said something about the catastrophe to Sir Albert, who was annoyed with him.

"How could I know she was going to faint?" he said; "she seemed all right: she wanted to go on."

"She has been very ill indeed for months, and, as I sent her the invitation, I felt bound to try and prevent her from doing herself harm."

"Oh, I did not know. She goes well enough, but she hangs back and makes herself heavy; my arm aches enough now. All the same I am very sorry. I could not think why you interfered."

"If it had not been you it would have been with somebody else," and Sir Albert sprang into a hansom and disappeared.

Lady Lyons only knew that Grace was over-fatigued; she knew nothing of her having fainted, and Grace herself was quite determined to say as little as possible. Were there not several other cards waiting, offering the same enjoyment?

In the manner a stupid woman sometimes has of vexing unintentionally, poor Lady Lyons contrived to offend her a good deal.

"Really, my dear, you cannot be grateful enough to that nice Sir Albert Gerald. But for him you and I would have had no supper, no dancing, and a very dull evening; and he hunted up a partner for you as well as dancing with you himself. I assure you he took a lot of trouble about it."

"Mr. Powis asked to be introduced to me."

"Did he, my dear? Why, what a humbug he must be! I heard him myself say to Sir Albert, 'I know too many girls already; do let me off!' and Sir Albert said, 'Nonsense,' and walked him up to you, and then he pretended to wish it himself."

"At any rate Sir Albert said, 'Mr. Powis would like to be introduced to you,'" and Grace was red with anger and mortification.

"My dear, I think they always say that. I heard it said so often near me."

Grace was silent. She had thought that this one man had been attracted by her, forgetting that in a great crowd there must be that undeniable something to be at all noticed.

Her next ball was a great mortification to her. She saw Mr. Powis, he asked her how she was, hoped she was better, and did not ask her to dance; more than this, he expressed surprise at her coming to a ball again.

"I should have thought you would have funked it, Miss Rivers. I shall feel quite nervous till I see you going home, you know."

Grace was furious.

She and poor Lady Lyons sat on unnoticed. They went away when they were tired and crept into the supper-room.

All the servants of the establishment were drawn up in a phalanx in the hall in splendid liveries, and the supper—done by contract—was very bad, and the waiters worse. They sat very forlorn, getting no attention, and retreated, nearly worn out, and having the greatest difficulty in getting their carriage, none of the liveries choosing to face a drizzling rain and call it up. After standing very long in a terrible draught, some one asked the name, and "Lady Lyons's carriage, no servant!" was shouted up and down the street.

Grace burst out laughing, but Lady Lyons, who saw nothing funny in any part of the evening's entertainment, subsided in a heap in the corner of the brougham and wept.

In spite of this, Grace persisted in going to the few things offered her.

"I cannot understand your caring for going out; you never meet a soul you know. Why do you go?" cried poor Lady Lyons at last.

"I go because it is so good for me—and for you too."

"So good for you! So good for me!"

"Yes, it is a sort of penance for you, sitting there and not amusing yourself; and, as for me," said Grace, lightly, "after this I can never set too high a value on myself! It is mortification all round."

"You say the oddest things."

"I am glad I am original; and now, Lady Lyons, I want to arrange some business, and when that is done I want to go to Scotland, but I must finish my business first."

"How long will it take?" asked Lady Lyons.

"I cannot tell. I want to make my will."

"My dear!"

"Is that another original idea? People have done such a thing before. Why do you particularly want to know about the time, Lady Lyons? You very clever people always have a motive in asking anything."

"It is about the rooms, my dear, and it is about my son," and Lady Lyons looked at Grace to see whether this mention of her son's name had any interest for her.

Grace hardly heard her. She was conscious herself of being very much worse in health than she had been when she arrived in London. It was true she had met many mortifications, but she did not care much about them. She had seen something of that whirl she had longed to be in, though she was conscious she had only been at the edge and looking on from a distance. The disenchantment, however, was complete; she saw that, unless living and moving amongst people and having them as friends, there was no pleasure in going to any place, however brilliant; and she was struck with the higher tone of many of the people she met, who did not live only for pleasure, but who took interest in other things, and who accepted "excitement" as an interruption, even if a pleasant interruption, to their usual pursuits, and did not make it their business. She grew ashamed of the frivolous aims and small ambitions she had, and, though she did not own it to herself, she wished she was more like Margaret.

Sir Albert called one day to say good-bye. He was going abroad. He wanted very much to say something to Grace, but he wanted to speak to her alone, and Lady Lyons was always there.

That good woman's way of thanking him for the trouble he had taken to promote their amusement was very amusing.

"Yes, indeed, Sir Albert, but for you, as I always say to Miss Rivers, no supper, no partners, a hard bench and a crowd. Oh, dear! I shall never forget it, never! Then you came, and that supper, and the Duchess was civil, and I had a pleasant conversation, and all was different."

"I am very glad I was able to be of use. The Duchess is always kind."

"Yes, she is very kind—though I bowed to her yesterday and she did not know me; perhaps, as I had a very thick veil on she could not see me," Lady Lyons added reflectively.

"Perhaps not."

"There is only one thing, Sir Albert, if you don't mind my saying it—I was so surprised to see her so plain."

"So plain! We think, in the family, that my aunt, for her age, is very good-looking; she has such a pleasant face."

"Oh! I don't mean plain in the sense of ugly," Lady Lyons said, in a great hurry, "but plain in her dress. She had no jewels on, not even a diamond ring, for I looked to see when she took off her gloves at supper."

"Some people think that the hostess ought to be unadorned. I rather like the sentiment."

"I don't the least understand it," said Lady Lyons, bluntly; "when I used to have company I put on my smartest gown."

"I suppose the Duchess has no smartest gowns," he answered laughing.

"Now that's nonsense, Sir Albert. But I should like to know the 'sentiment,' as you call it, though, for my own part, I cannot see any connection between sentiment and clothes."

"I do," said Grace; "if I am in a very good temper I can wear blue or white with a quiet conscience; if I am in a rage I wear red."

"My dear Miss Rivers! You do say such funny things."

"I shall then avoid speaking to you if I see you in a red gown," laughed Sir Albert.

"You had better——but please enlighten Lady Lyons, she is dying to know why one's 'best' gowns should not be aired on grand occasions."

"I fancy the idea is that it is better taste not to outshine one's guests," Sir Albert said; "the Duchess has such magnificent jewels that it would be easy to outdo every one else."

"That is rather a delicate nice feeling," said Grace, warmly.

"But I would rather wear my jewels, if I had any," said Lady Lyons. "Sir Albert, did you notice my butterfly the other night? No! how strange! Well, never mind! I will go and get it for you, it has a history."

She left the room, and Sir Albert seized his opportunity. "Miss Rivers," he began, hurriedly, "you have some idea, have you not, of what your sister is to me?"

"I think I have" said Grace demurely.

"Will you do me a very great kindness?" he said, earnestly. "Will you send me a line now and again? All that dreadful time the only plan, for her sake, was to keep away."

"I suppose it was," said Grace; "it must have been difficult."

"It has been very difficult."

"And when I send you this line, 'now and again,' am I to say anything to her?"

"I see no reason you should not let her know you are so kind as to write to me," he answered.

"Nor do I. I only wanted to know."

"If at any time you think she would care to see me—if I could ever be of use—you will let me know?"

"I will. Not that sending a letter to Norway or Finland, let alone the Antipodes, holds out much prospect of your being able to come within a reasonable time," she added, laughing.

"Distance sounds more than it is," he answered, composedly, "and I may not go quite so far as the Antipodes."

"Or Norway?" she said, mischievously.

He coloured vividly.

"Miss Rivers, I mean to put the sea between us, till...."

"Till she has forgotten, in some measure," said Grace, kindly. "I think you are right; because, just now, everything is so terrible to her. She might think happiness in connection with you quite out of the question; and if you came forward just now she might put herself into a position from which it might be difficult for her to draw back. I think you must wait till she has quite recovered, and then she may become conscious of a great blank in her life, and wish for you."

"God grant it may be so!" he said, fervently.

"Do you mind telling me how it was it all went wrong at Lornbay? I thought you cared for her then."

"Cared for her! It was a terrible misunderstanding. I never can forgive myself for having said something—put something in a stupid way. It does not bear thinking about. You have no conception what a trial that has been to bear. It has added to everything else."

"Well, before my lady and her butterfly comes, hear me promise to do what little I can in the matter, Sir Albert. Let us swear an eternal friendship!"

She held out her hand as Lady Lyons came into the room, and he gave her a grateful pressure. Lady Lyons coughed loudly, as much as to say—"I am here."

"Now, Sir Albert," said Grace, gaily, "Lady Lyons is quite shocked; you really must not make love to me under her very eyes."

Poor Lady Lyons felt dreadfully taken aback. Sir Albert, however, was so kind about her jewel, and, taking it to the light, gave it such real attention, that she was soon thinking of her butterfly more than of anything else.

When he had gone, however, the little scene recurred to her, and she began talking about him.

She was just sufficiently afraid of Grace to begin the conversation as far from the subject as possible, and, without losing sight of what she wanted to know, she began talking of Mrs. Dorriman, and of the days of her youth, when she had been a neglected girl of sixteen as Anne Sandford.

"Do you know, my dear, that in those days people used to think she was an heiress. Nobody knew anything at all about the brother, and it was such a surprise when he appeared. No one knew anything about his mother, and no one, I believe—none of his most intimate friends—knew of his father's first marriage."

"A disagreeable surprise for Mrs. Dorriman."

"Yes! and how good she is always; never a murmur, and it is very hard for her. First of all, her father made no will; then her husband muddled away all his money! Poor dear woman! Now, can any one say truthfully that she has had a happy life?" And Lady Lyons looked round the room, appealing, as it were, to an invisible audience, only at last looking at Grace.

"It is quite impossible that any one should be happy without independence," answered Grace. "It is a most galling thing to owe all, or nearly all, to some one who is nothing to one. I speak feelingly, Lady Lyons. Mr. Sandford, out of affection for his wife (who, as you know, was my aunt), offered us a home, and added to our income at school. But he made the obligation hateful to us by the way he went on. His temper is absolutely unbearable. I cannot tell you how terrible the scenes were. No one—no girl with any sense of self-respect—could put up with it! No one!"

"My dear! this is very, very sad."

"It is more than sad. This is the history of my poor darling Margaret's marriage. I was so utterly wretched, so perfectly miserable, that she married Mr. Drayton (all her instincts being against him) to save me from a life I hated. I urged her to do it; but, Lady Lyons, I was very ill; if I had only been well—if only I had not felt so much in want of all the comfort and care I could get—I am sure I never would have allowed her to sacrifice herself so terribly."

She stopped, exhausted, and covered her face with her hands.

"My dear! my dear!" said Lady Lyons, feebly patting her on the arm. "For my sake do not excite yourself so much. I am so very sorry I brought this forward—but I don't think I did either."

"It does not matter whether you did or not, it is always here—no, not always," said Grace, with a bitter little laugh, "because I am not a girl who makes herself miserable about what cannot be helped, but when I am driven into thought——Oh! Lady Lyons, do you know what it is? Did you ever, in all your life, have remorse?"

"Oh, yes!" said Lady Lyons, very placidly, "when I lost my husband I wished I had not been so cross to him. But he was trying, my dear—very trying. However, I was sorry I was snappish to him sometimes. It quite weighed upon me when he died."

Grace laughed again, and Lady Lyons looked at her curiously. What had she said that was so funny? She began to talk again, this time a little spitefully.

"I suppose you will be glad if your sister marries again?"

"Of course, I shall be glad for her to do whatever is for her happiness; but marrying again, Lady Lyons, does it not seem a little hard that she should have so many chances and I ... have none?"

"My dear, if I am not very much mistaken, Sir Albert Gerald is very much in love."

"Yes, I think he is very much in love," Grace answered indifferently.

"Then let us hope it will all come right."

"I hope it will," and before Lady Lyons could go on with her investigations a servant came to ask if Grace would see Mr. Stevens.

"Certainly." Grace was enchanted to see any one; and Lady Lyons, who did not care for Mr. Stevens, carefully gathered her patchwork together and left the room.

"Well, Mr. Stevens, you see me on the very verge of departure," exclaimed Grace; "I am really going far from this gay and festive scene, and intend recruiting my shattered nerves in Highland air."

Mr. Stevens looked at her gravely. He was deeply shocked by her appearance. She looked so fragile, and her lips were so absolutely without colour.

"I hope the Highland air will set you up," he said; "you look as if you have not had sleep for an indefinite time."

"No, sleep.... I do not sleep well." There was something almost pathetic in her tone. He had seen her pretty often now, but he had always seen her full of high spirits, bandying words; he thought her more interesting, and he said very kindly, "Change of air does much for every one, and it will do you good seeing your sister."

"How is she?" Grace felt softened by his tone.

"A different person since she went there. I went up there for a few days...." A curious hesitation in his manner struck her.

"I shall like being with my sister. I shall very much dislike being with some one else," Grace said, with a bitterness of tone he could not help noticing.

"Not—Mrs. Dorriman?"

"Not—Mrs. Dorriman!" she rejoined, imitating the little pause he had made, and looking at him with laughing eyes.

Mr. Stevens got up and looked out of the window. Grace called him back. "Did you come to see how I was? I do not look very robust, but I intend to get well up in the North."

"I hope you will."

"But you are afraid? Mr. Stevens, your face is nearly as good as a looking-glass. I see exactly how I look by the expression of your eyebrows. When you come into the room they are tidy and straight; if I look well they arch up into a sort of surprised state, as much as to say 'That girl is a riddle to me, she is actually better, who would have thought it?' When I look very ill, as I suppose I look to-day, they go down in a melancholy line and say as plainly as possible, 'Poor thing! she is going down-hill very fast.'"

"Miss Rivers, I am sorry my eyebrows should be so very inconveniently expressive," he said, trying to laugh, and feeling absolutely heartsick; she seemed to him frightfully ill, and so utterly devoid of anything like serious thought.

"You need not be sorry," she said, in an odd tone; "we none of us know anything of each other, and I daresay I judge you quite as hardly as you do me."

"Hardly! Do I judge you hardly?"

"You think I am so fearfully frivolous and thoughtless and——I cannot at this moment think of any other words."

"I know your sister best. She is not thoughtless: and may I say to you, Miss Rivers, that the more I know her the more thunderstruck I am at her ever having married poor Drayton?"

"You knew him better than any of us."

"Yes, ever since his boyhood. He had no chance. His father and mother were cousins, and insanity in the family. It was terrible to me to hear of his marriage."

Grace shivered.

"You do not like Mr. Sandford. I remember hearing this. I cannot bear him."

"He is in very bad health now."

"That does not alter things a bit. When I think of all his rudeness and violence ... and he always looks to me as though he had some great sin lying on his conscience."

Grace watched Mr. Stevens very narrowly, and she saw him give a little start.

He turned the subject at once.

"I came to pay something over to you, Miss Rivers—will you give me a receipt?"

It was a large cheque—the interest on the fifteen thousand pounds from the date of her sister's marriage.

"Mrs. Drayton refused this—the legacy duty is deducted and an account inclosed."

Grace examined it all quietly. Then she drew a blotting-book near her. She signed a receipt and inclosed the cheque to her bankers—rang, and desired the letter to be sent by hand.

Mr. Stevens watched her narrowly; how curiously unlike Mrs. Drayton she was, and yet something—that indescribable and subtle resemblance which comes out in tricks of manner more than in feature—would have caused Grace to be known any where as Margaret's sister. He began to describe Inchbrae to her, but she stopped him hurriedly.

"Pray do not begin about it for I know it by heart—Margaret writes about nothing else, and, as for Mrs. Dorriman, I do not know whether she or Jean talk most about it. Clear crystal sea—soft shadows on the mountains, sometimes clouds (always clouds I should say!)—sharp crags, fir-trees beautiful with red stems, beautiful without, waterfall, rowan-trees, scarlet geraniums, and a grey house. There, do I know my lesson, or do I not? The idea of your beginning too!"

Mr. Stevens went off into a fit of laughter, and he was one of the men who laughed with merriment, so many are noisy and not merry. In the midst of this hilarity in walked a tall young man announcing himself, with an injured waiter in the background waving deprecating hands.

It was Paul Lyons.

"Come and laugh too, Mr. Lyons," said Grace, as she shook hands with him. "Should you be surprised to hear that Mr. Stevens (by the way, let me introduce you. Mr. Stevens, Mr. Lyons; the same to the same). Yes, Mr. Stevens is laughing at an excellent, undeniable joke made by me."

Paul Lyons seemed older and more careworn than when she had last seen him. He looked at her with so grave an expression that she was startled. The laughter died away upon her lips, and she was silent.

"You have been ill?"

He spoke with very real feeling, and she, though she tried to answer him lightly, the effort was a failure. At length she said shortly—

"I have been ill, and your mother kind. My face speaks for itself, I suppose."

"Yes," answered Paul, "you are looking far from well. But you are better? You are going away?"

"Who told you this important fact?"

"My mother. I came home sooner. I wanted to see you before you went away."

Mr. Stevens had not very quick perceptions, but when Paul Lyons made this speech it dawned upon him that he was perhaps in the way.

He rose, and, renewing his offers of service, left the room, with an overpowering amount of thanks from Grace.

"Tell me about your illness, now that man has gone. Have you been seriously ill—as ill as my mother thinks?"

"How can I possibly tell what your mother thinks?"

"Oh, Grace! do not trifle just now! I have known for a very long time that my whole happiness is bound up in you!"

"Margaret is free, remember."

"What does that matter? Why remind me that I once liked her best? Is a man never to change? I know now—I have long known it—if I could but get you to believe it! that Margaret was a sort of dream of my youth. I shall always reverence her, but she is too far beyond me. She is like some pure cold saint, and I do love you, Grace!"

"But I have no wealth to endow you with," said Grace, looking at him earnestly, "only a very few hundreds a year."

She watched him a little anxiously, but his face showed it did not matter.

"I am poor enough," he said, "but you shall never want anything if you will only give me the right of taking care of you. I have succeeded in getting an appointment in Italy. I am sure that climate will suit you; the doctors said so."

"And you got the appointment without knowing that I would say yes," exclaimed Grace, a good deal in her old manner.

"If you say no, all places will be alike to me."

"Oh, Paul! shall I tell you something? I do love you, but I have a great deal to say to you before I say yes or no."

"Say anything now, and put me out of suspense."

"I believe I shall live; I am not very strong; but I am stronger than people think; and Paul, if I do say yes—if I am your wife—I am afraid you will have a very sorry bargain. I am not a very amiable girl, and I am capricious. Do you know what I am afraid of? I am always so afraid of getting tired of my husband."

"Grace, please don't talk like this. I also have many faults; you do not think I am perfect, do you? We must make allowances for each other."

"I certainly do not think you perfect," said Grace, laughing a little, "but I do think you should reflect. Just think, Paul: a delicate wife, full of whims, not very attractive."

"Grace, you will drive me crazy if you go on in this way. I love you, dear, with all your whims, and all else, and you will get strong and well in Italy. Say plainly, and at once, that you will marry me."

"Well then, plainly and at once, I will, Paul. I am not quite sure that the reason I care for you is not that you are the only man who has ever wished to marry me, but I will only marry you on one condition."

"On any condition, darling."

"I want to be married at once. I have heaps of new clothes; and I do not want to go to Scotland and confront old Sandford without some one to fight my battles."

Paul was surprised to find his mother pleased about his marriage.

"I was afraid you wanted me to marry a rich wife," he said, his satisfaction unbounded at the evident pleasure with which she received his news.

"I did, Paul, yes; but Grace has something."

"Not much I am afraid—but I have this appointment, mother, and we shall get on all right."

"I suppose it is not much; did she tell you what it was?"

"A few hundreds."

"A year. She has six or seven hundred a year."

"Oh!" said Paul, "I am glad, mother, of course. I am also glad I did not know anything about it."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"I cannot say," he answered.