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violinist who could also play the cornet; he often did
it at village concerts, so my partner informed me,
biting her lips as someone trod on her foot. Steering
my clumsy course round the room, I wondered
whether Lady Dumborough had arrived yet.

There was Aunt Evelyn, talking to Mrs. Shotney.
She certainly didn't look half bad when you compared
her with other people. And old Squire Maundle,
nodding and smiling by the door, as he watched his
little granddaughter twirling round and round with a
yellow ribbon in her hair. And General FitzAlan
with his eyeglass—he looked a jolly decent old chap.
, . . He'd been in the Indian Mutiny. . . . The music
stopped and the dancers disappeared in quest of
claret-cup and lemonade. "I wonder what sort of
ices there are," speculated my partner. There was a
note of intensity in her voice which was new to me.

"Oh, do come on, Denis, the music's begun," cried
a dark attractive girl with a scarlet sash—tugging at
the arm of a boy who was occupied with an ice. When
lie turned to follow her I recognized the rider of the
chestnut pony. From time to time as the evening went
on I watched him enjoying himself with the con-
spicuous Dumborough Park contingent, which was
dominating the proceedings with a mixture of rowdi-
ness and hauteur. Those outside their circle regarded
them with envious and admiring antagonism. By a
miratlc I found myself sitting opposite Denis Milden
at supper, which was at one long table. He looked
across at me with a reserved air of recognition.

"Weren't you out last Saturday?" he asked, I said