"Then," she said, tapping the back of his gloved hand with her fan,
"we ought to be merciful to the faults of a succeeding generation.
Tell me who is that young man with the long stride who is getting
himself introduced now."

"That," answered Sir John, who prided himself upon knowing every
one--knowing who they were and who they were not--"is young Oscard."

"Son of the eccentric Oscard?"

"Son of the eccentric Oscard."

"And where did he get that brown face?"

"He got that in Africa, where he has been shooting. He forms part
of some one else's bag at the present moment."

"What do you mean?"

"He has been apportioned a dance. Your fair niece has bagged him."

If he had only known it, Guy Oscard won the privilege of a waltz by
the same brown face which Lady Cantourne had so promptly noted.
Coupled with a sturdy uprightness of carriage, this raised him at a
bound above the pallid habitues of ballroom and pavement. It was,
perhaps, only natural that Millicent Chyne should have noted this
man as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was as remarkable as
some free and dignified denizen of the forest in the midst of
domestic animals. She mentally put him down for a waltz, and before