Half way down thirty couples, Mr. Blorage
became conscious of a circumstance. A stately old
dowager was seated, in the centre of a circle of
chairs, in the Chair of Truth. Howsoever it had
got there, by whatsoever mysterious agency it
had been brought there, there it was, with the
dowager in it. She was encircled by a crowd,
to whom she was holding forth, and evidently in
no complimentary strain. Mr. Blorage rushed
out of the country-dance at the instant when he
ought to have paraded the (in those parts) highly
fashionable Lady Fitzcluck down the middle;
he rushed back again, and danced vehemently;
he grasped the hand confidingly held across to
him in the execution of the figure hands across,
as if it were the throat of a burglar; in all the
hurry, worry, and confusion he must think (and
could not think) of three appropriate and
respectful questions to put to that terrible and
otherwise immovable old dowager. With his
responsibility staring him in the face, he had
hurled Lady Fitzcluck through a narrow gorge
of dancers, when an unfortunate button of his coat
entangled itself in the lace of a lady's dress, and
in the perturbation of his feelings he went down
the middle and up again, carrying a long and
tattered shred, that lengthened as he went.
Fanny's was the dress—Fanny was the sufferer.
But she looked up into his face so forgivingly,
and her soft blue eyes so smilingly met his, and her
rosy lips spoke his pardon in such sweet tones,
that he mentally said, "Dear, lovely Fanny,
what an angel! What bliss to be loved by
Fanny!" But when Florence stepped forward
from among the dancers, with eager concern, her
bright cheek flushed, her dark eyes sparkling,
and her voice attuned to the gentlest tones of
commiseration for the damage done to "dear
Fanny's dear love of a pretty dress"—when she
gracefully begged her partner to excuse her,
"that she might pin up the dear love's tatters"
—then, Mr. Blorage felt very much inclined to
repeat the above sentence over again, substituting
the name of Florence for Fanny. Meantime, all
eyes were attracted to the horrible dowager in the
Chair of Truth. Had any Painter been present,
he would have gone on his knees to beseech that
dowager to sit to him for the personification of
a Gorgon. Mr. Blorage felt, after all, that he
could no more dare to ask her a question than if
she had been his Black Majesty from below,
arrayed in gorgeous female attire. There she
must sit, until kind Fate stepped in with three
questions and released her. As he looked
hopelessly towards the door, he saw the little
piquante nose of Gatty Bland showing itself in
good relief against a black coat near her. She
had a little laced handkerchief tied under her
chin; she went towards the dowager, changing
the little laced kerchief into her hand; in her
plain white dress she conveyed the dowager, all
purple and gold, down the room, out at the
door, and into the tea-room. He blessed Gatty
Bland mentally, and finished his dance with high
credit to himself, and perfect satisfaction to the
(in those parts) rather-difficult-to-please Lady
Fitzcluck. As soon as he was free, he flew to
seek a partner, either in Fanny the Fair or
Florence the Beautiful.

They were together, and almost alone. They
were together—horror!—in the chair of Truth;
Fanny on the cushioned seat; Florence on the
stuffed arm. Florence was still employed in
pinning up the tatters of the torn dress of Fanny.

"What a beautiful picture; what a lovely
contrast!" thought Dick, as he approached.

"There, Dear!" said Florence, with a remarkably
emphatic stress upon the last word; "I
have pinned you up, and done the best I could
for you, Dear. But I am glad to see, notwithstanding,
that you are a monstrous figure, and
not fit to look at, Dear."

"Thank you, Florence, Dear!"

"Ah, you false thing! I see through your
meekness and your affectation, as if you did not
care about your dress. It is a pity Mr. Blorage
can't see you at home."

"It's a pity Mr. Blorage can't see you at
home. Aunt longs for the day when she can
rid herself of you: indolent, selfish, and useless
creature that you are."

"But Aunt comforts herself with the reflection
that she has not such a firebrand in her house as
you are. Aunt can well afford to put up with a
little indolence where there is so much good
temper."

"It is better to be a little passionate than
sulky, Love."

"Is it, Love? Mr. Blorage is the best judge
of that. We have all our tempers, and you don't
expect a perfect wife, do you, Mr. Blorage?"

"I am very imperfect myself," murmured the
unfortunate Dick.

"Oh no, Mr. Blorage," cried Fanny and Florence
together; "YOU are everything that is
nice and good tempered. And this is such a
love of a house, that no one could be unhappy
here."

Here the duet ceased, and solos began.

"You would always be cross and fractious,
Fanny," said Florence.

"And you would always be rude and boisterous,
Florence," said Fanny.

"For you are a virago, and you know you
are," said Florence.

"For you are a hoyden, and you know you
are," said Fanny.

"I am ashamed of you, my darling," said
Florence.

"I am disgusted with you, my precious," said
Fanny.

"Ladies, ladies!" expostulated Dick.

"She has the vilest temper, Mr. Blorage!"
cries Florence.

"She can't speak a word of truth, Mr.
Blorage," cries Fanny.

As Mr. Blorage turned hurriedly and
appealingly from the one to the other, each now
exclaiming, "Throw your handkerchief to me, Mr.
Blorage!" he lost his balance, rolled over, and
rolled the chair over. Picking himself up with
all possible despatch, and turning to apologise,
he found that Florence, Fanny, music, lights,
flowers, dancers, Lady Fitzcluck, and dowager,