'He is in no guidance at all,' sighed his mother.

'Is he going abroad with you?'

'Not he,' said Miss Beresford. 'He wouldn't be bothered with us girls.

He will see us as far as Newhaven, perhaps, and make brutal jokes all the way about the Channel.'

'You are going soon, then?' said he. Somehow there was a kind of constraint about this young lieutenant's manner. He seemed to be thinking of something or some one else. His remarks and questions were of the most conventional sort.

'On the 1st of September I think we shall be ready to start.'

'And are you going far?' he said, in the same preoccupied way.

'To Lucerne, first, I imagine; and then over the Splugen, when it is cool enough to go into Italy.'

'Oh, indeed!' said he. And then he added, after a pause, 'Oh, indeed!'

Then he rose.

'I see my man has got back,' he said. 'I am sorry, Lady Beresford, I cannot ask you to bring your daughters to look over the ship; we must be off directly. Some other time, perhaps. It would give me very great pleasure, indeed. I hope, Miss Beresford, you will have a pleasant journey. I have been thinking of going abroad myself this autumn if I can get sufficient leave. Will you remember me to your brother Tom?'

He bade them good-bye, and left. They were silent until they saw him cross over the King's Road. Then the business of criticism began.

'He doesn't talk like a sailor at all,' said the Baby, with a pout.

'He talks just like anybody.'

'At all events he is very good-looking,' said Beauty, warmly. 'He has the loveliest eyes I ever saw in a man. And his hands--did you notice his gloves?'

'A sailor shouldn't wear gloves,' said the Baby, who had not seen Lieutenant King before, but had heard of him, and was disappointed that he did not correspond to the nautical heroes she had read of.

'I think gold lace is far better on blue than on scarlet,' said Beauty.

'I think blue and gold looks better than anything in a ball-room.'

'He didn't tell us a single wonderful story,' said the disappointed Baby.

But Mary Beresford's comment was more odd still. She glanced at her mother, and laughed. 'Mother, he didn't even once mention Nan's name.'

CHAPTER III.

A FIRST BALL.

Nevertheless, Lieutenant King was quite as well acquainted with Nan Beresford as he was with the other members of the family--and this was how he came to know her. The Beresfords had for many years been the intimate friends of the Strathernes; and though they saw less of each other since Lady Beresford, on becoming a widow, had gone to live permanently in Brighton, still the London season brought them in a measure together again. Lady Beresford took rooms in Bruton Street during the fashionable months of the year for herself and her grown-up daughters; and from time to time, and as a great treat, Nan was allowed to come up for a few days from Brighton. On these rare occasions, if Sir George heard of the Beautiful Wretch being in town, nothing would do but that she should come with her mother and sisters to lunch in Spring Gardens--he being at this time Senior Naval Lord. And Nan was rejoiced. She was not at all a foolish young virgin; she was well aware of the affection the old Admiral had for her; and while she heartily reciprocated it, she knew that his special patronage of her gave her a sort of distinction among her sisters.

Well, one of these opportunities arrived, and Nan, not a little elated, but outwardly very demure, drove away with her mother and sisters, in a hired brougham, to New Street. In due course they arrived at their destination, and they had just got inside the door when, as chance would have it, Sir George himself came from the dining-room into the hall. He was a wiry-looking, handsome, elderly man, with grizzled hair, a firm face, and the kindliest of gray eyes; while on this occasion he was very gorgeously attired, for he had already dressed for a Levee, and, moreover, it was a Collar Day. It was extraordinary to see how naturally Nan went up to him, taking it for granted he would scarcely have a word for anybody else. And he hadn't. Of course he shook hands with Lady Beresford and Mary and Edith, and welcomed them in a kind of way; but it was Nan that he seized with both hands; and it was Nan that he himself escorted upstairs to the drawing-room; and it was Nan that he presented to Lady Stratherne, just as if there was n.o.body else in the world. Lady Stratherne, though she was also a miracle of kindness, knew her duties better, and busied herself with the others, leaving those two to themselves.

'Well, now,' said the old sailor, briskly, 'what is our first dance to be?'

'I beg your pardon, Sir George?' she said.

'Why, don't you know, girl, that you're coming to the ball?'

'What ball, Sir George?' said she, quite innocently.

What ball, indeed! And she had heard her sisters speak of nothing else for a fortnight.

'Why, my ball; our ball, everybody's ball! Why, don't you know that the world is going to stand still on Thursday night--in amazement. And if you didn't know, now you know; and that's the ball you're coming to, as sure as my name is Jack Horner--now, now, I've set my mind on it----'

Nan was no longer a hypocrite. Her heart began to beat rapidly--not with joy, but with fright.

'Oh, Sir George, I--I never was at a ball--I--I never go out--mamma would never dream----'

He turned and sung across the room--

'Mother!'

The lady who was addressed in this homely fashion was herself far from homely: she was a distinguished-looking woman, with pale, refined features, and a singularly intelligent and sweet expression.

'Mother, this girl is coming to the ball on Thursday, whether she likes it or not. I want a partner; I insist on having a partner. Get a card and invite her--a card all to herself--her name in capital letters--the honour of the company of the BEAUTIFUL WRETCH: will that do?'

Lady Stratherne said nothing at all, but regarded the other mother with a sort of puzzled smile.

'Oh, Sir George!' Lady Beresford protested, 'it is impossible. Thank you very much--but it is impossible----'

'Impossible!' he cried. 'We don't know what that is at the Admiralty.

The men who write in the newspapers expect us to be able to do everything at a moment's notice; and of course they're right; and so of course we can do it. And so can you; the end of the argument being that Nan is coming to our ball on Thursday night, as I'm a living Dutchman.'

But the matter was not so easily settled. There was a fierce fight.

It was ridiculous that a school-girl, who ought to be walking two and two along the Marine Parade, should go to one of the big b.a.l.l.s of the London season. How could a ball-dress be got ready by Thursday night?

And so forth: and so forth. Sir George paid no attention to all this firing of cotton pellets. She was coming to the ball on Thursday night, he maintained with a dogged obstinacy worthy of Nelson. And the end of it was that before they went down to lunch it had been finally agreed that Nan was to come to this ball; her mother remarking to Lady Stratherne, with a sigh of resignation--

'I can't imagine what Sir George sees in that gawky child.'

Now, we have it on the best authority--or what ought to be the best authority--that is to say, we have it from a mult.i.tude of lady-writers, that the prospect of going to a first ball is one of the great joys of a young girl's life. The present writer, at all events, is not bold enough to impeach such an array of witnesses, and will only state the simple fact that in the case of Nan Beresford this prospect filled her mind with nothing but terror and dismay. It was in all sincerity that she had besought Sir George to let her off; though she might as well have gone down on her knees to the Monument. He could not understand why a young girl of seventeen should be really reluctant to go to a dance--and a very pretty dance, too, for the rooms were to be decorated with flags. And when Nan told her mother and sisters that she would far rather not go to the ball, her mother fancied she was afraid that her dress, being hurriedly made, would not compare well with her sisters' long studied costumes, while the sisters simply said to each other, 'Oh, she knows she can't dance.'

There was some little truth in this last remark. Although she lived in a well-frequented house, where there were plenty of people coming and going, Nan had grown up very much apart. She had her own ways and occupations, which were mostly solitary. And dancing had never been a favourite amus.e.m.e.nt of hers. Of course, in the evening, when some young people were present, there was frequently a carpet-dance improvised; and then sometimes Nan was dragged in to make up a set at some square dance. She got through it mechanically; but it afforded her no special pleasure; and as for round dances, she said they made her giddy, and so she got excused. Giddy she said; and yet she could walk, without the slightest sensation in the brain, along the extreme verge of those high chalk-cliffs, to watch the jackdaws, and hawks, and gulls at nest-building time, and she could swing for an hour in a trapeze, so long as the seat was comfortable and you gave her a book to read.

Not that she at all played the part of Cinderella in the house. Her mother was exceedingly fond of her--partly, perhaps, because Nan alone took the trouble to humour all her mysterious nerve-miseries; while her sisters tolerated her, though they thought her unsocial. Even this dress, when it did appear--and a thousand times Nan had inwardly prayed that it might not be ready in time--was quite as pretty as theirs. It was very pretty indeed; but somehow, Nan, as she regarded herself in the big mirror, convinced herself that there was not enough of her to carry off a ball-dress. Her sisters had a certain 'presence' that a grand costume became. She thought she was too thin--that she looked more like a school-girl than ever; and she wished that she were not freckled. When, at last, she was in the carriage with the others--Mr.

Thomas had gone in a hansom rather than ride with the coachman--she said, cunningly,

'Mamma, dear, I am sure you will be excited with speaking to so many old friends; and you know your nerves cannot stand it. Let me sit by you, and take as much of the talk as I can. I really don't care to dance. I would rather not dance. I would far rather sit by you, mamma. And I am sure it is not necessary for us to stay long; it will do you such a deal of harm.'

Lady Beresford sighed.

'When one has grown-up daughters----,' she said almost to herself.

'Mamma, dear,' said Nan, eagerly, 'would you rather stay at home?