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don’t dance, Tom? Oh, Marie!”

      “I don’t mind, Lettie,” protested Marie.

      “Dance with me, Alice,” said George, smiling, “and Cyril will take Miss Tempest.”

      “Glory! — come on — do or die!” said Alice.

      We began to dance. I saw Lettie watching, and I looked round. George was waltzing with Alice, dancing passably, laughing at her remarks. Lettie was not listening to what her lover was saying to her; she was watching the laughing pair. At the end she went to George.

      “Why!” she said, “you can —

      “Did you think I couldn’t?” he said. “You are pledged for a minuet and a valeta with me — you remember?”

      “Yes.”

      “You promise?”

      “Yes. But —

      “I went to Nottingham and learned.”

      “Why — because? — Very well, Leslie, a mazurka. Will you play it, Emily — Yes, it is quite easy. Tom, you look quite happy talking to the Mater.”

      We danced the mazurka with the same partners. He did it better than I expected — without much awkwardness — but stiffly. However, he moved quietly through the dance, laughing and talking abstractedly all the time with Alice.

      Then Lettie cried a change of partners, and they took their valeta. There was a little triumph in his smile.

      “Do you congratulate me?” he said.

      “I am surprised,” she answered.

      “So am I. But I congratulate myself.”

      “Do you? Well, so do I.”

      “Thanks! You’re beginning at last.”

      “What?” she asked.

      “To believe in me.”

      “Don’t begin to talk again,” she pleaded sadly, “nothing vital.”

      “Do you like dancing with me?” he asked

      “Now, be quiet — that’s real,” she replied.

      “By Heaven, Lettie, you make me laugh!”

      “Do I?” she said —“What if you married Alice — soon.”

      “I— Alice! — Lettie!! Besides, I’ve only a hundred pounds in the world, and no prospects whatever. That’s why — well — I shan’t marry anybody — unless it’s somebody with money.”

      “I’ve a couple of thousand or so of my own —”

      “Have you? It would have done nicely,” he said, smiling. “You are different tonight,” she said, leaning on him.

      “Am I?” he replied —“It’s because things are altered too. They’re settled one way now — for the present at least.”

      “Don’t forget the two steps this time,” said she, smiling, and adding seriously, “You see, I couldn’t help it.”

      “No, why not?”

      “Things! I have been brought up to expect it — everybody expected it — and you’re bound to do what people expect you to do — you can’t help it. We can’t help ourselves, we’re all chess-men,” she said.

      “Ay,” he agreed, but doubtfully.

      “I wonder where it will end,” she said.

      “Lettie!” he cried, and his hand closed in a grip on hers.

      “Don’t — don’t say anything — it’s no good now, it’s too late. It’s done; and what is done, is done. If you talk any more, I shall say I’m tired and stop the dance. Don’t say another word.”

      He did not — at least to her. Their dance came to an end. Then he took Marie, who talked winsomely to him. As he waltzed with Marie he regained his animated spirits. He was very lively the rest of the evening, quite astonishing and reckless. At supper he ate everything, and drank much wine.

      “Have some more turkey, Mr Saxton.”

      “Thanks — but give me some of that stuff in brown jelly, will you? It’s new to me.”

      “Have some of this trifle, Georgie?”

      “I will — you are a jewel.”

      “So will you be-a yellow topaz tomorrow!”

      “Ah! tomorrow’s tomorrow!”

      After supper was over, Alice cried:

      “Georgie, dear — have you finished? — don’t die the death of a king — King John — I can’t spare you, pet.”

      “Are you so fond of me?”

      “I am — Aw! I’d throw my best Sunday hat under a milk-cart for you, I would!”

      “No; throw yourself into the milk-cart — some Sunday, when I’m driving.”

      “Yes — come and see us,” said Emily.

      “How nice! Tomorrow you won’t want me, Georgie dear, so I’ll come. Don’t you wish Pa would make Tono-Bungay? Wouldn’t you marry me then?”

      “I would,” said he.

      When the cart came, and Alice, Madie, Tom and Will departed, Alice bade Lettie a long farewell — blew Georgie many kisses — promised to love him faithful and true — and was gone.

      George and Emily lingered a short time.

      Now the room seemed empty and quiet, and all the laughter seemed to have gone. The conversation dribbled away; there was an awkwardness.

      “Well,” said George heavily, at last. “Today is nearly gone — it will soon be tomorrow. I feel a bit drunk! We had a good time tonight.”

      “I am glad,” said Lettie.

      They put on their clogs and leggings, and wrapped themselves up, and stood in the hall.

      “We must go,” said George, “before the clock strikes — like Cinderella — look at my glass slippers —” he pointed to his clogs. “Midnight, and rags, and fleeing. Very appropriate. I shall call myself Cinderella who wouldn’t fit. I believe I’m a bit drunk — the world looks funny.”

      We looked out at the haunting wanness of the hills beyond Nethermere. “Good-bye, Lettie; good-bye.”

      They were out in the snow, which peered pale and eerily from the depths of the black wood.

      “Good-bye,” he called out of the darkness. Leslie slammed the door, and drew Lettie away into the drawing-room. The sound of his low, vibrating satisfaction reached us, as he murmured to her, and laughed now. Then he kicked the door of the room shut. Lettie began to laugh and mock and talk in a high strained voice. The sound of their laughter mingled was strange and incongruous. Then her voice died down.

      Marie sat at the little piano — which was put in the dining-room — strumming and tinkling the false, quavering old notes. It was a depressing jingling in the deserted remains of the feast, but she felt sentimental, and enjoyed it.

      This was a gap between today and tomorrow, a dreary gap, where one sat and looked at the dreary comedy of yesterdays, and the grey tragedies of dawning tomorrows, vacantly, missing the poignancy of an actual today.

      The cart returned.

      “Leslie, Leslie, John is here, come along!” called Marie. There was no answer.

      “Leslie — John is waiting in the snow.”

      “All right.”

      “But you must come at once.” She went to the door and spoke to him. Then he came out

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