“Well,” said Gussy, “I cannot say that I see any harm in that. We have not had anything of the kind for a long time. We must see what mamma says. It does turn the house upside down, and give a great deal of trouble. But—you know mamma always likes to do anything to please you, and make you fond of your home, Dolff——”

“I should like to see any fellow that is more fond of his home, or sticks to it more,” cried Dolff.

“You have been very good lately,” said Gussy, in a hesitating tone, “if only one could be quite sure.”

Gussy did not know what to think. Mr. Meredith’s laughter and innuendoes had opened her eyes as to the cause of the virtue of Dolff; and she did not like the persistence with which Charley came back to the subject. She had no desire to be talked to about Miss Summerhayes and her influence for a whole evening, even if it was by way of jest. And as regarded the matter itself, though Gussy was quite willing to accept Janet’s aid in keeping Dolff from nightly wanderings which were not for his advantage, she did not like to be called upon to acknowledge that aid; still less to consider that it might lead to what she called further complications: the idea of “further complications” was highly disagreeable to her. Janet was very well in her way. She was good for Julia, and fortunately for Dolff too. It was a great advantage to have anyone who would keep those troublesome members of the family in order. But—the idea of further complications alarmed her very much. It was the last thing in the world that was desirable for any one concerned.

“I shall tell my mother I have set my heart on having a dance. How can you expect a man to stick to his home as you wish if he has nothing to amuse him? I will settle all that with my mother myself,” said Dolff, somewhat magisterially. He turned round upon her, however, after a moment: “If you don’t interfere.”

“Why should I interfere, if it makes you happy? To be sure it is a great trouble turning everything upside down.”

“One would think you were forty, Gussy!”

“I am not so young as you, at all events,” she said.

Gussy was as good as her word, and did not interfere. Even when she was privately consulted by her mother she said nothing against Dolff’s wish.

“If it keeps him up to the mark,” said Mrs. Harwood. “It is such a pleasure to see him so nice, to see him so improved—none of those wanderings out at night.”

“Yes, it is a great improvement,” said Gussy. She shook her head, with a sigh, and hoped that it would last.

“It has lasted a month,” said Mrs. Harwood, “I see no reason why it should not last forever. How can I refuse him anything when he is so good? Vicars will not like it. It distracts his mind, and he says he never knows what may happen: but I think I can smooth down Vicars, Gussy, if you are sure that you approve.”

“Oh, yes, I approve,” said Gussy, “anything to keep him steady.”

But Gussy herself was still young enough, and she thought of all the opportunities of the dance and the talks aside, the conversations in quiet corners, which were legitimate on such an occasion, with a little stir in her heart. At the piano, even though it was at the other end of the room, it was still under her mother’s eyes. She never saw her lover, never talked with him except under her mother’s eyes. How could he say anything under such circumstances? Her heart was a little sick that it should all go on forever in the same way, without the least progress. He talked about the songs, or about Janet and her influence on Dolff, laughing at what he said he had foreseen from the first. Gussy did not quite like the discussion of her brother, who, after all, was her brother, and not to be dissected as Charley loved to do, and she was not fond of hearing so much about Miss Summerhayes. There was no special interest in Miss Summerhayes that she should be the object of so much conversation between the two. And Gussy could not help thinking with a little pleasure of all the possibilities of the ball, where it was not only possible that two could talk together quite untrammelled, but where it was even a necessity that they should do so. To sit apart in a room unobserved with Charley once at least in the evening would be almost her duty; and then—with nothing to disturb them, no occasion for self-restraint—Gussy thought of this with a thrill through her veins yet with a sigh. She was becoming weary. All this had gone on for so long, and it looked as if it might go on forever without change.

Curiously enough it was the governess alone—as if she had any say in the matter!—who objected to the idea. Of course she did not object in words—but she nearly wrecked the project notwithstanding. She said, very innocently, that she did not think—even though Mrs. Harwood was so good as to ask her—that she could be present. There was a great outcry over this, for it was at luncheon, and the whole family was at table.

“Not come to the dance?” said Dolff. “Oh, but, Miss Summerhayes, that will spoil everything. I have—we’ve all calculated upon you, haven’t we, mother. Tell her she must come.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Harwood, “this is quite a new idea. I couldn’t have a dance in the house, knowing there was a young person upstairs alone. Oh, no, I couldn’t do it. Dolff is quite right—you must come.”

Gussy had only said “Oh!” raising her eyelids—but Janet read in that exclamation a suspicion and question. Gussy did not believe that she was sincere, and was curious to know what her motive was. The two had drifted apart strangely, but this suspicion was not native to Miss Harwood’s mind. It came from all those talks about Janet, and Dolff’s subjection to her, which had afforded an opportunity for so much amusement over the piano. Meredith would say, “Ah! I wonder what she means by that?” till Gussy put the question to herself involuntarily as he would have put it, feeling all the same that sick weariness with the subject which translated itself unjustly, but not unnaturally, into an impatience with Janet which sometimes she could hardly restrain.

“I should like to come,” said Janet, “but you forget I am in mourning. It is not six months yet——”

“That is true,” said the old lady; but she added: “My dear, I like you the better for thinking of it. But, after all, she was not a near relation—not like your mother. For an aunt, six months’ mourning is all that any one thinks of nowadays. And I believe the late poor lady was not even an aunt.”

“She was all I ever had, for mother or aunt or guardian.”

“Yes, I know—but left you to struggle for yourself, which makes a little difference. And what harm can it do her, poor thing, that you should enjoy yourself a little? You don’t get so many opportunities in this quiet house. When Dolff goes away we shall all relapse into our needlework again.”

“And Charley Meredith,” said Julia.

Thought is quicker than the most rapid utterance. Julia’s words came instantaneously, almost before her mother had done speaking, but it had flashed into two different minds before she spoke. And Charley Meredith! Gussy added that reflection to the picture of the future with an increasing sickness and impatience of her heart, seeing the same thing over again stretch before her, not without happiness in it, but with a weariness and incompleteness which would grow day by day. And it gleamed into Janet’s thoughts with a certain excitement and suspense, as of a thing of which nobody could prophesy how it would end. The sudden movement in both minds was curiously struck as by a false note by Mrs. Harwood’s calm reply:

“And Charley Meredith, perhaps. But that can’t affect Janet, except the wrong way: for I confess, myself, I get sick of these two always philandering—I beg your pardon, Gussy, my dear, but I’ve been young in my day—and other young people looking on, you know: why they must either make fun of you or the water must come into their mouths.”

The old lady laughed in the heartless way in which old ladies will laugh. She was only the more tickled when Gussy drew herself up, and, looking straight before her with a blank countenance and the sternest gravity, replied,

“I cannot form the slightest idea what you mean, mamma, or what there is in anything that has been said to call forth such a digression. We were speaking of the dance, I think, and of Janet’s mourning, which I agree with you is no reason why she should shut herself up.”

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Gussy,” said Mrs. Harwood, wiping her eyes, for she had not been able to stop her laugh, “but I’m glad of your support. No, no, my dear, the mourning has nothing to say to it. You have worn it very faithfully, and you have done your poor aunt full justice. I’m sure, poor lady, she would be the first to say, could she know, that you must now begin to enjoy yourself a little. At least, take what enjoyment you can: for you know the men are generally in the minority, and nobody can ever tell till the last moment whether there will be enough partners or not.”

“There shall be enough,” said Dolff, with a grand air. “I should be ashamed of myself if I couldn’t produce a lot of fellows—only you’ll have to put some of them up for the night. Couldn’t you clear out that old wing? There must be some rooms that could be used if they were tidied up.”

“No,” said Mrs. Harwood, with a change of countenance. She, too, became perfectly blank, as Gussy had done, dismissing all expression from her face. “It is quite out of the question to open the wing.”

“Why?” said Dolff. “I don’t see the difficulty. A couple of housemaids and a few brooms——”

“My boy, I must be the judge on this point,” said Mrs. Harwood. “There is nothing to be done with the wing.”

“But, mother——”

“I will have no more said on the subject,” she answered, peremptorily. “You had better come and wheel me into my room, I have some business to do this morning. And, Janet, I hope it’s settled, and that I shall hear no more about your mourning.”

“You are very kind, Mrs. Harwood. I am afraid I have no dress——”

“You have a very pretty dress; and let me tell you, my dear—though I daresay you know it—that black is always becoming, and that you look very well in that dress. Now, Dolff——”

“I hope we shan’t hear any more on that subject,” said Gussy, with an air of decision, as her mother’s chair was wheeled away. “I’m very glad to humor Dolff, but I shall soon be very tired of it if there are many more difficulties. Dress is always a nuisance on such occasions. One wears a ball dress once—it is as good as new, but when one takes it out it is old-fashioned, or faded, or something, and it is such a waste of good money to get another to be worn again only on one occasion. You may be very glad you are in black, Janet—and there is Ju, she is not out, and won’t be for a couple of years. And yet she can’t be sent to bed. How is she to be dressed for this one night? I know mamma will overdo it if she is left to herself. All that and the supper, and the musicians, and everything of that kind is left on my hands. A ball may be very nice at the moment—for those who like it—but the trouble it gives, both before and after! Every spare inch of room must, of course, be got ready for Dolff’s friends.”

“Do you think, then, that Mrs. Harwood will yield about the wing?” said Janet, very curious.

“As if Vicars would!” cried Julia. “Mamma doesn’t matter—it’s Vicars that won’t have it. I’ve always wanted to get into the wing, but Vicars stands sentinel as if he were a jailer. I’ve told him a dozen times I was sure he had got something wrong in there. I can’t bear Vicars!” said Julia, hurrying out the words to get as much said as possible before Gussy’s imperative tones broke in.

“Ju! you are unbearable. I thought at one time there was an improvement, but there’s none. Vicars is a most valuable servant. We have the highest respect for him and his opinion, both mamma and I. At such a time as this he is more good than words can say—and always so careful for the credit of the house. Isn’t it time you had begun lessons? I must go and see after the house.”

As Janet followed her pupil out of the room she was met in the hall by Dolff, very eager and breathless.

“You’re coming, Miss Summerhayes? I must stop you just for a moment to make sure. Don’t spoil it altogether by saying you’ll not come. I shan’t care a brass farthing for it if you’re not there. But you will come—say you will? You won’t disappoint us all and ruin it for me——”

“I can’t see what difference it would make,” said Janet, “especially if there are too many ladies already.”

“But that wouldn’t affect you. You will always—— Miss Summerhayes, I’ll throw it all up if you don’t come.”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. Harwood; besides, after what your mother so kindly said, I am coming—to look on at least.”

“Oh, I like that!” cried Dolff. He seized her hand and squeezed it as she passed him. “But you may say anything you like,” he said, rejoicing, “so long as you come.”

“Janet,” said Julia, when they had reached the school-room, “I think this is getting a very queer house. Gussy cares for nothing but Charley Meredith, and Dolff cares for nothing but you. It is—odd—don’t you think?”

“It would be if it were true,” said Janet; “but as it is a mere fancy, it is not worth discussing. I hope you are quite ready with your preparation to-day.”

“I can’t see,” said Julia, “any signs in you like the other two: but perhaps it’s just your artfulness. One thing, Dolff is much nicer than he was before. As for Gussy——”

“We are not here to discuss either your brother or your sister, Julia, and I will not have it. Where are your books?”

“Janet, you have a dreadfully strong will. Mamma says so. I suppose you never would give in to another person; to do what they wanted, and not what you wanted yourself?”

“It does not look as if I had a very strong will,” said Janet, with a laugh, “when you run on defying me, instead of getting out your books.”

“That’s no answer,” said Julia. “If Dolff asked you——”

“Come,” said Janet, “this is going too far. I think the Wars of the Roses are much more interesting. You have never yet made out that table showing how Henry the Seventh succeeded; and how it was so wise of him to marry Elizabeth of York. Come, you’ll understand it all so much the better when you see how it comes——”

“As if I cared,” said Julia, opening her books with a sigh; “they were all cousins, and the one that was strongest took everything, and when the other one got stronger he took it all back. I know exactly how it was; all cousins are like that. The very same thing happened with Mary Morgan, who is my cousin. All the toys used to be mine while I had Dolff, and Fred was away; but as soon as Fred came home, who was the biggest, he seized them all. I know it far better than any book could say.”