'Tis the night of the ball, dinner is over and the house party is collected in the hall, waiting the arrival of the guests. The fiddles are scraping away in the drawing-room, where the furniture having been taken away and the carpet removed, the floor looks inviting and 'is perfectly delicious' owns Philippa, having performed a pas seul thereon, before anyone was down. She looks extremely pretty to-night in a quaint, little white satin dress, her hair fluffed all round her head, and tied up with pale green ribbons.
At this moment she is striving in vain to button up one of Chubby's gloves. 'It's awfully good of you,' he says. 'I can't think why they are so tight, what—'
'If I don't button it this time,' she replies, 'I really can't try any more, for I have not got my own on yet, and I know they'll begin to dance in a moment.'
'You'll let me have the first, won't you?' he says.
'Certainly,' she answers, all her attention absorbed in the button which is just half in the button-hole, one little poke and 'there it's done,' she says.
But alas! it is done indeed, for there is an ominous crack, and a large split is seen right across it.
'What a nuisance,' says Helmdon, gazing at the torn article.
'Oh I hope it wasn't my fault,' says Lippa.
'No; not at all, I assure you—'
'Don't waste time then looking at it, fetch another quickly,' and Philippa begins hastily to cover her own bare hands. 'Chubby,' she calls after him, 'they're beginning to dance. I can't keep this one for you, the next one will do just as well, won't it?'