The rain was not by any means over when we came out into the field. It was half-past four, but, though the sun had sunk, the clouds had lifted, and the misty orange light of the after-glow filled the air. A slim scrap of a moon had slipped up over the hill to the eastward, and the bats were swooping round our heads as we picked our way across the muddy yard of the demesne farm.

“I think you’ll find the field drier than the bohireen,” said Willy, in the same distant voice which he had last spoken; “we can get over the wall here.”

He took my hand to help me over, but dropped it as quickly as possible, and walked on with unnecessary haste, keeping a little in front of me. The field was, as he had said, rather better than the lane, but my feet sank in the soaked ground, the pace at which we were going took my breath away, and I began to be left behind. Willy still stalked on unrelentingly, with the enviable unpetticoated ease of mankind in wet weather.

“I wish you wouldn’t go so fast,” I called out at last. “I can’t possibly keep up if you go at that pace.”

He slackened at once.

“I thought you wanted to go fast,” he answered, without looking back.

“I don’t particularly care,” I said, as I struggled up alongside of him. “I should think Mr. O’Neill must have gone home some time ago.”

Willy made no comment. I took out my handkerchief and wiped the last raindrops from my face, feeling a good deal aggrieved by his behaviour.

“Your cap’s all wet too,” he said, looking down at me from under his eyelids—“soaking, and so is your coat,” putting his hand on my shoulder for a moment. “I think I ought to have carried you home in a turf-basket. Look at this bad bit here we’ve got to go through.”

“Thank you,” I said snappishly, taking off my wet cap and shaking the rain from it as I went, “I should rather not. I am about as wet as I can be now. It certainly was capital weather to go out ferreting in.”

We were now at the “bad bit” of which Willy had spoken,—a broad, dark stripe, vivid green by daylight,—across a hollow in the field, with a gleam of water here and there in it.

“You’d much better let me carry you over this,” said Willy, stopping.

“No, thank you,” I said again, eyeing, however, with an inward tremor, the long distances between the tussocks of grass which might serve as stepping-stones. “You have the eggs to carry, and I have no wish to be dropped with them into the bog.”

“Ah! nonsense now; you know there’s no fear of that,” he said, and put his arm round me as if to lift me. “Do let me.”

“I am not going to be carried,” I said, with determination. “If you’d only let me alone, I should get over quite well.”

He did not take his arm away, and bent down over me.

“You’re always getting angry with me these times,” he said.

“No, indeed I’m not,” I answered, trying to speak pleasantly, and to move forward at the same time.

His quick breathing was at my ear, and for one moment his lips touched my hair; the next I was floundering with a burning face through the deepest of the quagmire. At every step my feet sank ankle-deep; I dragged out each in succession with an effort that nearly pulled my boots off, and when I gained firm ground again, my feet had become shapeless brown objects, weighed down with mud, with which my skirt was also thickly coated. Willy had made no further effort to help me, and, having followed me across with caution, walked silently beside me as I hurried along, trying to ignore my uncomfortable and ignoble plight.

But one field now divided us from the road, and as I scrambled up on to the high fence I heard wheels, and saw something moving along it away from the Durrus gate.

“That must be Mr. O’Neill’s trap!” I cried excitedly, jumping down after Willy, who was already in the field. “Oh, Willy, do run and stop him! I must explain——”

“There’s no earthly use in trying to catch him now,” Willy answered morosely. “I’m not going to kill myself running after him, like a fool, for nothing at all.”

“Very well,” I rejoined; “if you won’t go, I will.”

My indignation with Willy alone sustained me through that dreadful run. I had to cut diagonally across the field in order to intercept Nugent. The ground was soft and sticky; my mud-encumbered skirt clung round me; and I should have had scant chance of catching him but for the fact that the road, curving a little at this point, led over a steep and stony bit of hill. I reached the wall of the field just as the horse was breaking into a trot at the top of the hill; but, fortunately for me, the groom at the back of the dog-cart saw the walking-stick which I feebly brandished to attract his attention—I had no breath wherewith to shout—and, recognizing me, called to his master to stop.

Nugent pulled up, and, turning round, took off his hat with a face of such astonishment that I became all at once aware of the appearance which I must present, but I came forward with a gallant attempt to appear unconscious of my heated face and general dishevelledness.

“How are you?” I panted. “I intended to be at home. Won’t you——?” Here my breath failed me, and I was obliged to eke out my sentence with a gesture in the direction of Durrus.

“Oh, thanks; it doesn’t matter in the least. Don’t let me take you back any sooner than you had intended,” replied Nugent, in a voice that told he had been nursing his wrath to keep it warm.

“I was going home,” I said, more intelligibly. “I am very sorry, but we were delayed by the rain.”

He got out of the dog-cart and shook hands with me across the low wall, on the farther side of which I was standing.

“There has certainly been a pretty heavy shower,” he said, looking at me uncertainly, but, as I thought, with a dawning amusement.

“Hasn’t there? Awful!” I said, smearing my wet hair back behind my ears, and putting on the cap which I had clutched convulsively in my hand during my run across the field. “We had to shelter in a cottage for ever so long.”

“Who is we?”

I looked round for my late companion, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Willy was with me,” I said; “but he declared that it was no use trying to catch you, and—and I suppose he has gone home.”

Nugent said nothing, but climbed on to the wall with as much dignity as his macintosh would permit, and helped me over it. I was very unfortunate, I inwardly reflected; I first got wet through, and then one cross young man after another dragged me over these horrible wet stone walls. However, I said aloud—

“You must come back and have some tea; it is quite early still.”

He hesitated.

“Thanks, I am not sure if I shall have time; but perhaps, in any case, you had better let me drive you home.”

The step of the dog-cart was a very high one, and as I put my foot on it to get up, the full beauties and proportions of my boot—a shapeless mass, resembling a brown-paper parcel—were revealed. My eyes met Nugent’s, and we both laughed, he unwillingly, I with helpless realization of my appearance.

“I am not fit to get into anything better than a pigstye or a donkey-cart,” I said apologetically. “I really am ashamed of myself from every point of view, moral and physical.”

“But what on earth have you been doing?” he asked, as we turned and drove towards Durrus. “Have you been out snipe-shooting in the bog with Willy?”

“No,” I answered cheerfully; “something much more vulgar.”

“It certainly does look more as if you and he had been digging potatoes, but I did not quite like to suggest that.”

Something in his manner offended me.

“That was just it,” I said, not choosing to explain. “Willy is rather short of farm hands just now, and I have had my first lesson in ‘sticking’ potatoes.”

“I should think you will find that a useful accomplishment in Boston.”

“Knowledge is power,” I said combatively. “Probably the next time you see me, I shall be learning to sell pigs in the fair at Moycullen.”

“Very likely. I believe Americans—I beg your pardon, I mean people from America—like to do a country thoroughly when they get there. I suppose you go in for experiments as much as the others?”

“Why, certainly! I guess that’s why I came over here; I’m experimentalizing all the time.”

“Really!” said Nugent, without appearing to notice my elaborate Americanisms. “And is your experiment successful so far?” He looked me full in the face as he spoke.

“Yes, so far,” I answered, with an unexplainable feeling that sincerity was required of me, and noting inwardly the blue impenetrability of his eyes.

He said nothing for a minute or two; then, without any apparent connection of ideas—

“Is Willy corning home to hear us play?” he asked. “Have you taught him to appreciate high-class music yet?”

“I don’t think he wants any teaching,” I said, with an instinctive wish to stand up for my cousin; “he has a wonderful ear, and his taste is really very good.”

“Really!” in an uninterested voice.

“Yes,” I said positively; “I believe he has a real talent for music, if he had only been given a chance.”

“He did not get much of a chance at anything, I believe,” Nugent said, in what seemed to me a patronizing way.

“No, he certainly did not. I think very few people know all the disadvantages he has had, and I am quite sure that very few people would have done as well as he has if they had been in his place.” This with some warmth.

“I am sure I shouldn’t, for one,” replied Nugent, quietly taking to himself the generality which I had thought both telling and impalpable. “But then, I dare say—— Why, there he is!” interrupting himself, as we turned into the avenue and came in sight of Willy, who was walking very fast towards home.

He got out of our way without looking back, and only nodded to us as we passed. I saw the bowl of eggs in his hand, and knew by the defiant way in which he carried it that he was ashamed of it.

“Your fellow-labourer seems to have had a peaceful time collecting eggs whilst you were sticking the potatoes,” said Nugent, with again the suggestion of a sneer. “He certainly does not look as if he had done as much hard work as you.”

“No; he has not run all the way across a field, as I did just now.”

Nugent coloured. “I deserved that,” he said, and laughed. Then, after a moment’s pause, “And I don’t think I did deserve your taking such trouble to stop me.”

“Of course, you may have some inner sense of unworthiness,” I answered, mollified, “that must remain between you and your own conscience; but it was very rude of me not to have been at home, and I did not mind the run half so much as writing the letter of apology which I should have felt you had a right to.”

“And which I should not have believed,” said Nugent. “It was so wet that I should have been quite certain that you were sitting over the fire with Willy all the time, and told Roche to send me away because you felt as if playing violin accompaniments would be a bore.”

“Appearances would have been against me,” I admitted; “but I should have enclosed my boots as circumstantial evidence”—advancing one disreputable foot from beneath the rug—“and perhaps also one of the potato-cakes which I had ordered specially for your benefit.”

A loud twanging snap from the violin-case under the seat startled us both.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Nugent; “that is the E string, and I have not another with me.”

“Then we can’t have any music,” I said, with unaffected dismay. “What a pity! So I brought you back for nothing, after all.”

“Don’t say nothing,” he said; “think of the potato-cakes!”

“That may be your point of view,” I said regretfully; “but when I was running across that field I was thinking of Corelli.”

“I had hoped,” remarked Nugent, looking sideways at me, as he pulled up at the hall door, “that you might have had some incidental thoughts about the way in which you had treated me.”

“I cannot argue any more until I have had my tea,” I said, getting out of the trap, and trying to stamp some of the mud off my boots on the steps.

“Perhaps I had better go home,” he suggested. “As Corelli is out of the question, I suppose I shall not be wanted.”

“Just as you like.”

“But I want the potato-cake you promised me.”

“Then, I think you had better come in and get it,” I said, going into the house. “I don’t approve of outdoor relief.”

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PART II.

THE COST OF IT.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. JACKSON-CROLY AT HOME.

It was the day of the Jackson-Crolys’ dance, for which we had in due course received our invitations, gorgeously printed on gilt-edged cards. Willy and I were sitting over the library fire after tea, and had already begun to contemplate the combined horrors of dressing for a ball and eating a half-past six o’clock dinner, when Uncle Dominick stalked in, with a basket in his hand, which he handed to me with a note, saying austerely that one of the Clashmore servants had just ridden over with it.

The note was from Connie.

“My dear Theo,” it began—I had seen a good deal of the O’Neills lately, and Connie and I had arrived at calling each other by our Christian names—“we are sending you over some yellow chrysanthemums, as you said you were going to wear white. Mamma will, of course, be delighted to chaperon you, and thinks you had better come here first, and drive on in our carriage; and we can take you home and put you up for the night, as Willy may want to stay later than you do. Nugent is, I think, very proud of the bouquet. He constructed it himself, and has spent the greater part of the morning over it in the conservatory. Certainly, as far as wire goes, it is all that can be desired; there are at least ten yards of that in it.”

“I should have thought you might have found some flowers for your cousin here, Willy,” remarked Uncle Dominick, while I was reading the letter to myself.

“There’s nothing fit for any one to wear,” answered Willy, gloomily. “I was out this morning to see, and there was nothing but a few violets.”

“I am sorry you did not pick them,” I said, with pacific intention; “I should have been very glad to wear them. They think it would simplify matters if I slept at Clashmore to-night,” I went on. “I think it would be a good plan, if you don’t mind, Uncle Dominick?”

“It is entirely for you to decide, my dear,” he said coldly; “you can make any arrangements that you like. The man is waiting for an answer.”

“Well, I will sleep there,” I said, goaded to decision by his ungracious manner.

I accordingly wrote a note to Connie to that effect, and, having sent it, went up to dress.

With the aid of the ministrations of Maggie, the red-haired housemaid, who had developed a deep attachment for me, I was arriving at the more advanced stages of my toilet, when I heard a knock at my door.

“I’ve got you some violets,” said Willy’s voice, “but I’m afraid they’re not up to much. I’ve left them outside.”

I heard him run down the passage to his own room, and, opening the door, I saw a small bunch of violets lying on the ground. I picked them up; there were very few of them, and they were drenched with rain. Willy must have been all this time toilsomely searching for them with a lantern in the dark.

“Has it been raining, Maggie?” I asked.

“’Deed, then, it has, miss, and teeming rain this half-hour.”

So he must have gone out in the rain to pick them for me. Poor Willy!

I fastened them into the front of my dress with a sudden ache of pity, and looked at those other flowers on my dressing-table, the feathery golden chrysanthemums showing through a mist of maidenhair, with something that was near being distaste. Their coming had not been altogether a surprise to me; in fact, I had been more or less looking out for them all day. But somehow Willy’s bunch of violets had taken away most of my pleasure in them, and when I came downstairs I laid the bouquet with my wraps, out of sight, on the hall table.

We hurried through our early dinner, but before we left the dining-room I received a mysterious intimation from Roche to the effect that Mrs. Rourke would like to see me outside.

Mrs. Rourke was the cook, and, inly marvelling what she could have to say to me, I went out into the hall. There, to my no small surprise, I was confronted, not only by Mrs. Rourke, but by the whole strength of the Durrus indoor establishment. There they all were—housemaid, dairy-maid, and kitchen-maids, with their barefooted subordinates lurking behind them, and from them, as I appeared, a low-breathed murmur of approval arose.

“Well, miss,” began Mrs. Rourke, in tones of solemn conviction, “ye might thravel Ireland this night, and ye wouldn’t find yer aiqual! Of all the young ladies ever I seen, you take the sway!”

“Glory be to God! ’tis thrue!” moaned a kitchen-maid, in awestricken assent.

“Why, you can’t half see her there, Mrs. Rourke,” said Willy, coming out of the dining-room; “hold on till I get a lamp.”

He came back with the tall old moderator lamp from the middle of the dinner-table, and, holding it up, stood so that the light should fall full on me. Seldom have I felt more foolish than I did at that moment; but I did my best to live up to the position.

“And what I say, Masther Willy,” continued Mrs. Rourke, taking up her parable in the manner of a prophetess, “is that I never seen a finer pair than the two of ye, and ye do well to be proud of her! And I hope it won’t be the last time I’ll see herself and yourself going out through that door together—nor coming in through it nayther!”

This dark saying was received by the chorus with various devotional expressions of satisfaction.

“Yes, Mrs. Rourke,” said my uncle’s voice from behind me, in tones of unusual affability, “I think we have no reason to be ashamed of our representatives.”

I was beginning to feel that I could bear this dreadful ceremonial no longer, when, with sincere inward thanksgiving, I heard the grinding of wheels on the gravel.

“There is the carriage,” I said, turning to Willy, who had all this time been silently holding up the lamp; “do put down that thing, and get me my cloak.”

My uncle himself put my wraps upon me, and stood with me in the open doorway while Roche laid a strip of carpet down the wet steps. As I stood waiting in the doorway, I saw a woman standing in the rain, just outside the circle of light thrown from the carriage lamps. She pressed forward a little as I came down the steps, and then drew quickly back with what sounded like a sob. The momentary gleam of the carriage lights had shown me who it was.

“Willy,” I said, as we drove away, “did you see Anstey Brian standing there? I am almost sure she was crying. What could have been the matter with her?”

“You must have made a mistake,” he said; “maybe it wasn’t Anstey at all. Anyhow, if she wants to cry, there’s no need for her to go and stand out there in the rain to do it.”

He spoke with an annoyance that puzzled me. I was quite certain that I had seen Anstey; but, remembering that for some reason the subject of Moll Hourihane and her daughter had always been an unfortunate one with Willy and my uncle, I said no more.

We had been asked to the Jackson-Crolys’ for nine o’clock, but, although it was not much more than half-past when the Clashmore carriage arrived at Mount Prospect, several heated couples whom we encountered in the hall were proof that the dancing had already been going on for some time. On coming down from the cloak-room, we saw at the foot of the stairs a small, bald-headed gentleman, moving in an agitated way from leg to leg, and apparently engaged in alternately putting on and taking off his gloves.

“That’s Mr. Jackson-Croly,” whispered Connie, rapidly; “he’s an odious little being! Don’t dance with him if you can possibly help it. I always tell lies to escape him; I lose less self-respect in that way than by dancing with him.”

She had no time to say more, as Madam O’Neill had by this time advanced upon our host with a benignity of aspect born of the consciousness of a singularly becoming cap and generally successful toilette. For a moment I thought he was going to make her a courtesy, so low was his reverence on shaking hands with her.

“It was so kind of you to come, Madam O’Neill,” he said, speaking through tightly closed teeth in a small, deprecating voice; “and the weather so unpleasant, too; yes, indeed! But we’ve quite a nice little number of friends dancing in there already, and we’re expecting another carful of partners for the young ladies”—with a bow to Connie and me—“from the bank in Moycullen.”

“That will be delightful!” said Connie, with a brilliant smile, giving me at the same time an expressive pinch.

She was looking very pretty, and was in the highest spirits, consequent, as I soon found, on an advanced flirtation with a Captain Forster, then staying at Clashmore. Pending his arrival, however, she condescended to dance with Mr. Jimmy Barrett, who, his usual red-hot appearance accentuated by the fact that he was wearing the hunt uniform, had waylaid us in the hall, and he now carried Connie off, while I followed the Madam and Mr. Jackson-Croly into the drawing-room. There we were received by Mrs. Jackson-Croly, imposingly attired in ruby silk and white lace. Unlike her obsequious spouse, Madam O’Neill’s diamonds and acknowledged social standing had no over-aweing effect upon her, and in her greeting to us she abated no whit of her usual magnificence of manner.

“’Twas too bad Miss O’Neill was from home and couldn’t come,” she observed condescendingly. “I have lots of gentlemen looking for partners—quite an ‘embrasse de richesses.’ There were so many asking for invitations, and I didn’t like refusing. You must let me present some of them to you, Miss Sarsfield.”

The two rooms in which the dancing was going on were brightened by the red coats of several members of the Moycullen Hunt, and one of these was presently captured by Mrs. Croly and introduced to me. While I was putting his name down for a dance, the rest of our party were ushered in by Mr. Jackson-Croly.

“The Clashmore gentlemen, Louisa, my dear,” he announced, with chastened pride.

The O’Neill soon made his way to me.

“Well, Miss Sarsfield, what are we to have? I see the next is a polka. I can’t manage these new-fashioned waltzes, but I flatter myself I can dance a polka.”

With inward trepidation I consented, and was occupied with the usual difficulty of refastening my pencil to my card, when card and all were quietly taken out of my hand.

“Now, Theo, how about those dances you promised me? I’m just going to put my name down for them”—scribbling away on my card as he spoke.

“Nonsense, Willy; give me back my card at once.”

“No fear; not till I’ve done with it. Well, this will do for a start,” he said, at length returning me my card, black with his initials, and departing without giving me time to remonstrate. As he went away, Nugent came up.

“Can you give me a dance?” he asked. “I am afraid it is not very likely, after the amount of time Willy has spent over your card. I never saw him write so much before in his life; he looked as if he were writing a book.”

“Oh, I think I have some left,” I said, resolving to do as I thought fit about Willy’s dances.

“Then, may I have 6, 11, 13, and 18, if you are here; and supper?”

“I am afraid I can’t give you supper,” I said, glancing at the large “W” scrawled through the four supper extras on my card; “but you can have the others, I think.”

“Thanks; that is very good of you. I think the next thing to be done is to ask Mrs. Croly for a waltz”—making a survey of the room as he spoke. “I always do, and she always pretends to strike me with her fan, and says, ‘I suppose you’re mistaking me for Sissie,’ and is arch. I should watch if I were you; I am sure you would like to see her looking arch.”

I was, unfortunately, not privileged to see this phase of my hostess, as The O’Neill had already stationed himself beside me, so as not to lose a bar of his polka.

“Lots of people here to-night, Miss Sarsfield. You must feel as if you were back in Boston, eh? Ah, there’s the music! Let us start while we have plenty of room.”

He danced with the self-assertive vigour peculiar to small fat men, and we stamped and curvetted round the room in circles so small that I found it difficult to keep on my feet.

“That wasn’t bad,” he gasped complacently, as we staggered to a corner and rested there, while he mopped his purple forehead. “You dance like a fairy, Miss Sarsfield. But, upon my soul, I think they get more pace on every year. That woman at the piano—Mrs. What’s-her-name? Whelply, isn’t it?—why, she’s rattling away as if the devil was after her.”

Looking about me, I saw with deep amusement that Willy had selected Miss Mimi Burke as his partner, and was charging with her through the throng at reckless speed. Her face, blazing with heat and excitement, showed no unworthy fears for her own safety; and as, with her chin embedded in Willy’s shoulder, they sped past, she cast an eye of exhilarated recognition at me.

“By Jove!” wheezed O’Neill, still breathless from his exertions; “old Mimi’s got a wonderful kick in her gallop still. She’s getting over the ground like a three-year-old!”

To me the appearance of my cousin and his partner was more suggestive of a large steamer going full speed through smaller craft, Miss Mimi’s rubicund face representing the port light; but I kept this brilliant idea to myself.

“I hope Willy knows how to steer,” I said. “He does not take things so easily as your son appears to do.”

Nugent was performing what was only too evidently a duty dance with one of the Misses Jackson-Croly—a very young lady, with fuzzy hair and a pink frock. They wound sadly along, as much as possible on the outskirts of the darting crowd, Nugent’s expression of melancholy provoking his more agile parent to a laugh of mingled contempt and self-complacency.

“Take things easily!” he repeated; “why, he’s a regular muff. Who’d ever think he was a son of mine? If I were dancing with a spicy little girl like that, I wouldn’t look as if I were at my own funeral. Shall we have another turn?” and before I had time for a counter suggestion we were again hopping and spinning round the room.

I had no reason to complain of lack of attention on the part of my hostess, and I and my card were soon in a state of equal confusion. The generic name of Mrs. Jackson-Croly’s “dancing gentlemen” appeared to be either Beamish or Barrett, and had it not been for Willy’s elucidation of its mysteries, I should have thrown my card away in despair.

“No, not him. That’s Long Tom Beamish! It’s English Tommy you’re to dance with next. They call him English Tommy because, when his militia regiment was ordered to Aldershot, he said he was ‘the first of his ancestors that was ever sent on foreign service.’”

Willy’s dances with me were, during this earlier part of the evening, sandwiched with great regularity between those of the clans Beamish and Barrett, and I found him to be in every way a most satisfactory partner. He was in a state of radiant amiability, and proved himself of inestimable value as a chronicler of interesting facts about the company in general. He was, besides, strong and sure-footed—qualities, as I had reason to know, not to be despised in an assemblage such as this. I carried for several days the bruises which I received during my waltz with English Tommy. It consisted chiefly of a series of short rushes, of so shattering a nature that I at last ventured to suggest a less aggressive mode of progression.

“Well,” said English Tommy, confidentially, “ye see, I’m trying to bump Katie! That’s Katie”—pointing to a fat girl in blue. “She’s my cousin, and we’re for ever fighting.”

There seemed at the time nothing very incongruous about this explanation. There was a hilarious informality about the whole entertainment that made it unlike any I had ever been at before. Every one talked and laughed at the full pitch of their lungs. An atmosphere of utmost intimacy pervaded the assemblage, and Christian names and strange nicknames were bandied freely about among the groups in the corners. The music was supplied by volunteers from the ranks of the chaperons, at the end of each dance the musician receiving a round of applause, varying in volume according to the energy and power of endurance displayed. The varieties of style and time thus attained were almost unimaginable, and were only equalled by the corresponding vagaries of the dancers, whose trampings and shufflings and runnings were to me as amazing as they were unexpected.

I could see Madam O’Neill sitting in state at the end of the room, surrounded by lesser matrons, her boredom only alleviated by the acute disfavour with which she viewed the revels.

“Do you know where Connie is, my dear?” she said, with pale asperity, as I came up to her after a dance. “I have not seen her for the last four dances.”

I was well aware that Connie and Captain Forster had long since established themselves in the conservatory, but Madam O’Neill was too full of her grievance to give me time to reply.

“I am perfectly horrified at what you must think of all this,” she went on. “Even here I never saw such a noisy, romping set. You know, we are quite in the backwoods here—all the nice people live at the other end of the county—and you mustn’t take these as specimens of Irish society.”

I was spared the necessity of replying by the appearance of Nugent.

“Nugent, where is Connie?” demanded the Madam again. “It is too bad of her to make herself so remarkable in a place like this.”

“Oh, she’s all right; she’s with Forster somewhere,” he answered, with the incaution of total indifference. “Here’s your host coming to take you in to supper, and I advise you to avoid the sherry. This is our dance, No. 11,” he said to me. “We had better not lose any more of it.”

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES. G., C. & Co.

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