There was an anxious moment on Betty's part when Edith Banfield summoned her to decide upon what dress should be worn for the evening. Pagot, whom Betty had asked to go and help her new friend, was wearing a disapproving¹ look, and two or three fine French dresses were spread out for inspection².  
"Why, aren't you going to dress?" asked Edith. "I was afraid you were all ready to go down, but I couldn't think what to put on."
 
"I'm all dressed," said Betty, with surprise. "Oh, what lovely gowns! But we"—she suddenly foresaw a great disappointment—"we needn't go down yet, you know, Edith; we are not out, and dinner isn't like luncheon³ here in England. We can go down afterward⁴, if we like, and hear the songs, but we girls never go to dinner when it's a great dinner like this. I think it is much better fun to stay away; at least, I always have thought so until last night, and then it did really look very pleasant," she frankly⁵ added. "Why, I'm not sixteen, and you're only a little past, you know." But there lay a grown-up young lady's evening gowns as if to confute all Betty's arguments.
 
"How awfully⁶ stupid!" said Edith, with great scorn. "Nursery tea for anybody like us!" and she turned to look at Betty's dress, which was charming enough in its way, and made in very pretty girlish fashion. "I should think they'd make you wear a white pinafore," said Edith ungraciously; but Betty, who had been getting a little angry, thought this so funny that she laughed and felt much better.
 
"I wear muslins for very best," she said serenely⁷. "Why, of course we'll go down after dinner and stay a while before we say good-night; they'll be out before half-past nine,—I mean the ladies,—and we'll be there in the drawing-room. Oh, isn't that blue gown a beauty! I wish I had put on my best muslin, Pagot."
 
"You look very suitable, Miss Betty," said Pagot stiffly. Pagot was very old-fashioned, and Edith made a funny little face at Betty behind her back.
 
The two girls had a delightful⁸ dinner together in the morning-room next Betty's own, and Edith's good humor was quite restored. She had had a good day, on the whole, and the picture galleries and conservatories⁹ had not failed to please by their splendors¹⁰ and delights. After they had finished their dessert, Betty, as a great surprise, offered the hospitalities of the musicians' gallery, and they sped along the corridors and up the stairs in great spirits, Betty leading the way. "Now, don't upset the little benches," she whispered, as she opened the narrow door out of the dark passage, and presently their two heads were over the edge of the gallery. They leaned boldly out, for nobody would think of looking up.
 
The great hall was even gayer and brighter than it had looked the night before. The lights and colors shone, there were new people at table, and much talk was going on. The butler and his men were more military than ever; it was altogether a famous, much-diamonded dinner company, and Lady Mary looked quite magnificent at the head.
 
"It looks pretty," whispered Edith; "but how dull it sounds! I don't believe that they are having a bit of a good time. At home, you know, there's such a noise at a party. What a splendid big room!"
 
"People never talk loud when they get together in England," said Betty. "They never make that awful chatter¹¹ that we do at home. Just four or five people who come to tea in Tideshead can make one another's ears ache. I couldn't get used to it last summer; Aunt Barbara was almost the only tea-party person in Tideshead who didn't get screaming."
 
"Oh, I do think it's splendid!" said Edith wistfully. "I wish we were down there. I wish there was a little gallery lower down. There's Lord Dunwater, who sat next me at luncheon. Who's that next your father?"
 
There was a little noise behind the eager girls, and they turned quickly. A tall boy had joined them, who seemed much disturbed at finding any one in the gallery, which seldom had a visitor. Edith stood up, and seemed an alarmingly tall and elegant young lady in the dim light. Betty, who was as tall, was nothing like so imposing¹² to behold¹³ at that moment; but the new-comer turned to make his escape.
 
"Don't go away," Betty begged, seeing his alarm, and wondering who he could be. "There's plenty of room to look. Don't go." And thereupon the stranger came forward.
 
He was a handsome fellow, dressed in Eton clothes. He was much confused, and said nothing; and, after a look at the company below, during which the situation became more embarrassing to all three, he turned to go away.
 
"Are you staying in the house, too?" asked Betty timidly; it was so very awkward.
 
"I just came," said the boy, who now appeared to be a very nice fellow indeed. They had left the musicians' gallery,—nobody knew why,—and now stood outside in the corridor.
 
"I just came," he repeated. "I walked over from the station across the fields. I'm Lady Mary's nephew, you know. She's not expecting me. I had my supper in the housekeeper's room. I was going on a week's tramp in France with my old tutor, just to get rid of Christmas parties and things; but he strained a knee at football, and we had to give it up, and so I came here for the holidays. There was nothing else to do," he explained ruefully. "What a lot of people my aunt's got this year!"
 
"It's very nice," said Betty cordially.
 
"It's beastly slow, I think," said the boy. "I like it much better when my aunt and I have the place to ourselves. Oh, no; that's not what I mean!" he said, blushing crimson¹⁴ as both the girls laughed. "Only we have jolly good times by ourselves, you know; no end of walks and rides; and we fish if the water's right. You ought to see my aunt cast a fly."
 
"She's perfectly¹⁵ lovely, isn't she?" said Betty, in a tone which made them firm friends at once. "We're going down to the drawing-room soon; wouldn't you like to come?"
 
"Yes," said the boy slowly. "It'll be fun to surprise her. And I saw Lady Dimdale at dinner. I like Lady Dimdale awfully."
 
"So does papa," said Betty; "oh, so very much!—next to Lady Mary and Mrs. Duncan."
 
"You're Betty Leicester, aren't you? Oh, I know you now," said the boy, turning toward her with real friendliness¹⁶. "I danced with you at the Duncans', at a party, just before I first went to Eton,—oh, ever so long ago!—you won't remember it; and I've seen you once besides, at their place in Warwickshire, you know. I'm Warford, you know."
 
"Why, of course," said Betty, with great pleasure. "It puzzled me; I couldn't think at first, but you've quite grown up since then. How we used to dance when we were little things! Do you like it now?"
 
"No, I hate it," said Warford coldly, and they all three laughed. Edith was walking alongside, feeling much left out of the conversation, though Warford had been stealing glances at her.
 
"Oh, I am so sorry—I didn't think," Betty exclaimed in her politest manner. "Miss Banfield, this is Lord Warford. I didn't mean to be rude, but you were a great surprise, weren't you?" and they all laughed again, as young people will. Just then they reached the door of Lady Mary's morning-room; the girls' dessert was still on the table, and, being properly invited, Warford began to eat the rest of the fruit. "One never gets quite enough grapes," said Warford, who was evidently suffering the constant hunger of a rapidly growing person.
 
Edith Banfield certainly looked very pretty, both her companions thought so; but they felt much more at home with each other. It seemed as if she were a great deal older than they, in her fine evening gown. Warford was very admiring and very polite, but Betty and he were already plunged¹⁷ into the deep intimacy¹⁸ of true fellowship. Edith got impatient before they were ready to go downstairs, but at last they all started down the great staircase, and had just settled themselves in the drawing-room when the ladies began to come in.
 
"Why, Warford, my dear!" said Lady Mary, with great delight, as he met her and kissed her twice, as if they were quite by themselves; then he turned and spoke¹⁹ to Lady Dimdale, who was just behind, still keeping Lady Mary's left hand in his own. Warford looked taller and more manly²⁰ than ever in the bright light, and he was recognized warmly by nearly all the ladies, being not only a fine fellow, but the heir of Danesly and great possessions besides, so that he stood for much that was interesting, even if he had not been interesting himself. Betty and Edith looked on with pleasure, and presently Lady Mary came toward them.
 
"I am so glad that you came down," she said; "and how nice of you to bring Warford! He usually objects so much that I believe you have found some new way to make it easy. I suppose it is dull when he is by himself. Mr. Frame is here, and has promised to sing by and by. He and Lady Dimdale have practiced some duets—their voices are charming together. I hope that you will not go up until afterward, no matter how late."
 
Betty, who had been sitting when Lady Mary came toward her, had risen at once to meet her, without thinking about it; but Edith Banfield still sat in her low chair, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, while Lady Mary did not find it easy to talk down at her or to think of anything to say. All at once it came to Edith's mind to follow Betty's example, and they all three stood together talking cheerfully until Lady Mary had to go to her other guests.
 
"Isn't she lovely!" said Edith, with all the ardor²¹ that Betty could wish. "I don't feel a bit afraid of her, as I thought I should."
 
"She takes such dear trouble," said Betty, warmly. "She never forgets anybody. Some grown persons behave as if you ought to be ashamed of not being older, and as if you were going to bore them if they didn't look out." At this moment Warford came back most loyally from the other side of the room, and presently some gentlemen made their appearance, and the delightful singing began. Betty, who loved music, sat and listened like a quiet young robin²² in her red dress, and her father, who looked at her happy, dreaming face, was sure that there never had been a dearer girl in the world. Lady Mary looked at her too, and was really full of wonder, because in some way Betty had managed with simple friendliness to make her shy nephew quite forget himself, and to give some feeling of belongingness to Edith Banfield, who would have felt astray by herself in a strange English house.