Cornish's arm with her fan that suggested in a far-off, cold way that
this social butterfly had reached one of the still strings of her
heart. Who knows? There may have been, in those dim days when Lady
Ferriby had played her part in the romantic story which all hinted at
and none knew, another such as Tony Cornish--gay and debonair,
careless, reckless, and yet endowed with the power of making some poor
woman happy.

"My dear aunt," replied Cornish, with a levity with which none other
ever dared to treat her, "the benevolent are always greedy. And each
additional virtue--temperance, loving-kindness, humility--only serves
to dull the sense of humour and add to the appetite. Give them
biscuits, aunt."

And offering her his arm, he good-naturedly led her to the
refreshment-room to investigate the matter. As she passed through the
crowded rooms, she glanced from face to face with her quick, seeking
look. She cordially disliked all these people. And their principal
crime was that they ate and drank. For Lady Ferriby was a miser.

At the upper end of the room a low platform served as a safe retreat
for sleepy chaperons on such occasions as the annual Ferriby ball.
To-night there were no chaperons. Is not charity the safest as well as
the most lenient of these? And does her wing not cover a multitude of
indiscretions?

Upon this platform there now appeared, amid palms and chrysanthemums, a
long, rotund man like a bolster. He held a paper in his hand and wore a
platform smile. His attitude was that of one who hesitated to demand
silence from so well-bred a throng. His high, narrow forehead shone in