A certain great ball, given yearly at Dunholm Castle, was one of the most notable social features of the county. It took place when the house was full of its most interestingly distinguished¹ guests, and, though other balls might be given at other times, this one was marked by a degree of greater state. On several occasions the chief guests had been great personages indeed, and to be bidden to meet them implied a selection flattering in itself. One's invitation must convey by inference that one was either brilliant, beautiful, or admirable, if not important.  
Nigel Anstruthers had never appeared at what the uninvited were wont², with derisive³ smiles, to call The Great Panjandrum Function—which was an ironic⁴ designation not employed by such persons as received cards bidding them to the festivity. Stornham Court was not popular in the county; no one had yearned⁵ for the society of the Dowager Lady Anstruthers, even in her youth; and a not too well-favoured young man with an ill-favoured temper, noticeably on the lookout⁶ for grievances⁷, is not an addition to one's circle. At nineteen Nigel had discovered the older Lord Mount Dunstan and his son Tenham to be congenial acquaintances, and had been so often absent from home that his neighbours would have found social intercourse⁸ with him difficult, even if desirable. Accordingly, when the county paper recorded the splendours of The Great Panjandrum Function—which it by no means mentioned by that name—the list of “Among those present” had not so far contained the name of Sir Nigel Anstruthers.
 
So, on a morning a few days after his return, the master of Stornham turned over a card of invitation and read it several times before speaking.
 
“I suppose you know what this means,” he said at last to Rosalie, who was alone with him.
 
“It means that we are invited to Dunholm Castle for the ball, doesn't it?”
 
Her husband tossed the card aside on the table.
 
“It means that Betty will be invited to every house where there is a son who must be disposed of profitably.
 
“She is invited because she is beautiful and clever. She would be invited if she had no money at all,” said Rosy⁹ daringly. She was actually growing daring, she thought sometimes. It would not have been possible to say anything like this a few months ago.
 
“Don't make silly mistakes,” said Nigel. “There are a good many handsome girls who receive comparatively little attention. But the hounds of war are let loose, when one of your swollen¹⁰ American fortunes appears. The obviousness of it 'virtuously¹¹' makes me sick. It's as vulgar—as New York.”
 
What befel next brought to Sir Nigel a shock of curious enlightenment, but no one was more amazed than Rosy herself. She felt, when she heard her own voice, as if she must be rather mad.
 
“I would rather,” she said quite distinctly, “that you did not speak to me of New York in that way.”
 
“What!” said Anstruthers, staring at her with contempt which was derision.
 
“It is my home,” she answered. “It is not proper that I should hear it spoken of slightingly.”
 
“Your home! It has not taken the slightest notice of you for twelve years. Your people dropped you as if you were a hot potato.”
 
“They have taken me up again.” Still in amazement¹³ at her own boldness, but somehow learning something as she went on.
 
He walked over to her side, and stood before her.
 
“Look here, Rosalie,” he said. “You have been taking lessons from your sister. She is a beauty and young and you are not. People will stand things from her they will not take from you. I would stand some things myself, because it rather amuses a man to see a fine girl peacocking. It's merely ridiculous in you, and I won't stand it—not a bit of it.”
 
It was not specially¹⁵ fortunate for him that the door opened as he was speaking, and Betty came in with her own invitation in her hand. He was quick enough, however, to turn to greet her with a shrug¹⁶ of his shoulders.
 
“I am being favoured with a little scene by my wife,” he explained. “She is capable of getting up excellent little scenes, but I daresay she does not show you that side of her temper.”
 
Betty took a comfortable chintz-covered, easy chair. Her expression was evasively speculative¹⁷.
 
“Was it a scene I interrupted?” she said. “Then I must not go away and leave you to finish it. You were saying that you would not 'stand' something. What does a man do when he will not 'stand' a thing? It always sounds so final and appalling¹⁸—as if he were threatening horrible things such as, perhaps, were a resource in feudal¹⁹ times. What IS the resource in these dull days of law and order—and policemen?”
 
“Is this American chaff²⁰?” he was disagreeably conscious that he was not wholly successful in his effort to be lofty.
 
The frankness of Betty's smile was quite without prejudice.
 
“Dear me, no,” she said. “It is only the unpicturesque result of an unfeminine knowledge of the law. And I was thinking how one is limited—and yet how things are simplified after all.”
 
“Simplified!” disgustedly.
 
“Yes, really. You see, if Rosy were violent she could not beat you—even if she were strong enough—because you could ring the bell and give her into custody²¹. And you could not beat her because the same unpleasant thing would happen to you. Policemen do rob things of colour, don't they? And besides, when one remembers that mere¹⁴ vulgar law insists that no one can be forced to live with another person who is brutal²² or loathsome²³, that's simple, isn't it? You could go away from Rosy,” with sweet clearness, “at any moment you wished—as far away as you liked.”
 
“You seem to forget,” still feeling that convincing loftiness was not easy, “that when a man leaves his wife, or she deserts him, it is she who is likely to be called upon to bear the onus²⁴ of public opinion.”
 
“Would she be called upon to bear it under all circumstances?”
 
“Damned clever woman as you are, you know that she would, as well as I know it.” He made an abrupt²⁵ gesture with his hand. “You know that what I say is true. Women who take to their heels are deucedly unpopular in England.”
 
“I have not been long in England, but I have been struck by the prevalence of a sort of constitutional British sense of fair play among the people who really count. The Dunholms, for instance, have it markedly. In America it is the men who force women to take to their heels who are deucedly unpopular. The Americans' sense of fair play is their most English quality. It was brought over in ships by the first colonists—like the pieces of fine solid old furniture, one even now sees, here and there, in houses in Virginia.”
 
“But the fact remains²⁶,” said Nigel, with an unpleasant laugh, “the fact remains, my dear girl.”
 
“The fact that does remain,” said Betty, not unpleasantly at all, and still with her gentle air of mere unprejudiced speculation²⁷, “is that, if a man or woman is properly ill-treated—PROPERLY—not in any amateurish²⁸ way—they reach the point of not caring in the least—nothing matters, but that they must get away from the horror of the unbearable²⁹ thing —never to see or hear of it again is heaven enough to make anything else a thing to smile at. But one could settle the other point by experimenting. Suppose you run away from Rosy, and then we can see if she is cut by the county.”
 
His laugh was unpleasant again.
 
“So long as you are with her, she will not be cut. There are a number of penniless young men of family in this, as well as the adjoining, counties. Do you think Mount Dunstan would cut her?”
 
She looked down at the carpet thoughtfully a moment, and then lifted her eyes.
 
“I do not think so,” she answered. “But I will ask him.”
 
He was startled by a sudden feeling that she might be capable of it.
 
“Oh, come now,” he said, “that goes beyond a joke. You will not do any such absurd thing. One does not want one's domestic difficulties discussed by one's neighbours.”
 
Betty opened coolly surprised eyes.
 
“I did not understand it was a personal matter,” she remarked. “Where do the domestic difficulties come in?”
 
He stared at her a few seconds with the look she did not like, which was less likeable at the moment, because it combined itself with other things.
 
“Hang it,” he muttered. “I wish I could keep my temper as you can keep yours,” and he turned on his heel and left the room.
 
Rosy had not spoken. She had sat with her hands in her lap, looking out of the window. She had at first had a moment of terror. She had, indeed, once uttered in her soul the abject³⁰ cry: “Don't make him angry, Betty—oh, don't, don't!” And suddenly it had been stilled, and she had listened. This was because she realised that Nigel himself was listening. That made her see what she had not dared to allow herself to see before. These trite³¹ things were true. There were laws to protect one. If Betty had not been dealing³² with mere truths, Nigel would have stopped her. He had been supercilious³³, but he could not contradict her.
 
“Betty,” she said, when her sister came to her, “you said that to show ME things, as well as to show them to him. I knew you did, and listened to every word. It was good for me to hear you.”
 
“Clear-cut, unadorned facts are like bullets,” said Betty. “They reach home, if one's aim is good. The shiftiest people cannot evade³⁴ them.”
 
. . . . .
 
A certain thing became evident to Betty during the time which elapsed between the arrival of the invitations and the great ball. Despite an obvious intention to assume an amiable³⁵ pose for the time being, Sir Nigel could not conceal³⁶ a not quite unexplainable antipathy³⁷ to one individual. This individual was Mount Dunstan, whom it did not seem easy for him to leave alone. He seemed to recur³⁸ to him as a subject, without any special reason, and this somewhat puzzled Betty until she heard from Rosalie of his intimacy³⁹ with Lord Tenham, which, in a measure, explained it. The whole truth was that “The Lout,” as he had been called, had indulged in frank speech in his rare intercourse with his brother and his friends, and had once interfered⁴⁰ with hot young fury in a matter in which the pair had specially wished to avoid all interference. His open scorn of their methods of entertaining themselves they had felt to be disgusting impudence⁴¹, which would have been deservedly punished with a horsewhip, if the youngster had not been a big-muscled, clumsy oaf, with a dangerous eye. Upon this footing their acquaintance had stood in past years, and to decide—as Sir Nigel had decided—that the oaf in question had begun to make his bid for splendid fortune under the roof of Stornham Court itself was a thing not to be regarded calmly. It was more than he could stand, and the folly⁴² of temper, which was forever his undoing⁴³, betrayed him into mistakes more than once. This girl, with her beauty and her wealth, he chose to regard as a sort of property rightfully his own. She was his sister-in-law, at least; she was living under his roof; he had more or less the power to encourage or discourage such aspirants⁴⁴ as appeared. Upon the whole there was something soothing⁴⁵ to one's vanity in appearing before the world as the person at present responsible for her. It gave a man a certain dignity of position, and his chief girding at fate had always risen from the fact that he had not had dignity of position. He would not be held cheap in this matter, at least. But sometimes, as he looked at the girl he turned hot and sick, as it was driven home to him that he was no longer young, that he had never been good-looking, and that he had cut the ground from under his feet twelve years ago, when he had married Rosalie! If he could have waited—if he could have done several other things—perhaps the clever acting⁴⁶ of a part, and his power of domination might have given him a chance. Even that blackguard of a Mount Dunstan had a better one now. He was young, at least, and free—and a big strong beast. He was forced, with bitter reluctance⁴⁷, to admit that he himself was not even particularly strong—of late he had felt it hideously⁴⁹.
 
So he detested⁵⁰ Mount Dunstan the more for increasing reasons, as he thought the matter over. It would seem, perhaps, but a subtle pleasure to the normal mind, but to him there was pleasure—support—aggrandisement—in referring to the ill case of the Mount Dunstan estate, in relating illustrative anecdotes⁵¹, in dwelling⁵² upon the hopelessness of the outlook, and the notable unpopularity of the man himself. A confiding⁵³ young lady from the States was required, he said on one occasion, but it would be necessary that she should be a young person of much simplicity⁵⁴, who would not be alarmed or chilled by the obvious. No one would realise this more clearly than Mount Dunstan himself. He said it coldly and casually⁵⁵, as if it were the simplest matter of fact. If the fellow had been making himself agreeable to Betty, it was as well that certain points should be—as it were inadvertently—brought before her.
 
Miss Vanderpoel was really rather fine, people said to each other afterwards, when she entered the ballroom⁵⁶ at Dunholm Castle with her brother-in-law. She bore herself as composedly as if she had been escorted by the most admirable and dignified⁵⁷ of conservative relatives, instead of by a man who was more definitely disliked and disapproved⁵⁸ of than any other man in the county whom decent people were likely to meet. Yet, she was far too clever a girl not to realise the situation clearly, they said to each other. She had arrived in England to find her sister a neglected wreck⁵⁹, her fortune squandered⁶⁰, and her existence stripped bare of even such things as one felt to be the mere decencies. There was but one thing to be deduced from the facts which had stared her in the face. But of her deductions⁶¹ she had said nothing whatever, which was, of course, remarkable⁶² in a young person. It may be mentioned that, perhaps, there had been those who would not have been reluctant to hear what she must have had to say, and who had even possibly given her a delicate lead. But the lead had never been taken. One lady had even remarked that, on her part, she felt that a too great reserve verged⁶³ upon secretiveness, which was not a desirable girlish quality.
 
Of course the situation had been so much discussed that people were naturally on the lookout for the arrival of the Stornham party, as it was known that Sir Nigel had returned home, and would be likely to present himself with his wife and sister-in-law. There was not a dowager present who did not know how and where he had reprehensibly spent the last months. It served him quite right that the Spanish dancing person had coolly left him in the lurch⁶⁴ for a younger and more attractive, as well as a richer man. If it were not for Miss Vanderpoel, one need not pretend that one knew nothing about the affair—in fact, if it had not been for Miss Vanderpoel, he would not have received an invitation—and poor Lady Anstruthers would be sitting at home, still the forlorn little frump and invalid⁶⁵ she had so wonderfully ceased to be since her sister had taken her in hand. She was absolutely growing even pretty and young, and her clothes were really beautiful. The whole thing was amazing.
 
Betty, as well as Rosalie and Nigel—knew that many people turned undisguisedly to look at them—even to watch them as they came into the splendid ballroom. It was a splendid ballroom and a stately one, and Lord Dunholm and Lord Westholt shared a certain thought when they met her, which was that hers was distinctly the proud young brilliance⁶⁶ of presence which figured most perfectly⁶⁷ against its background. Much as people wanted to look at Sir Nigel, their eyes were drawn⁶⁸ from him to Miss Vanderpoel. After all it was she who made him an object of interest. One wanted to know what she would do with him—how she would “carry him off.” How much did she know of the distaste people felt for him, since she would not talk or encourage talk? The Dunholms could not have invited her and her sister, and have ignored him; but did she not guess that they would have ignored him, if they could? and was there not natural embarrassment⁶⁹ in feeling forced to appear in pomp, as it were, under his escort?
 
But no embarrassment was perceptible. Her manner committed her to no recognition of a shadow of a flaw in the character of her companion. It even carried a certain conviction with it, and the lookers-on felt the impossibility of suggesting any such flaw by their own manner. For this evening, at least, the man must actually be treated as if he were an entirely⁷⁰ unobjectionable person. It appeared as if that was what the girl wanted, and intended should happen.
 
This was what Nigel himself had begun to perceive, but he did not put it pleasantly. Deucedly clever girl as she was, he said to himself, she saw that it would be more agreeable to have no nonsense talked, and no ruffling⁷¹ of tempers. He had always been able to convey to people that the ruffling of his temper was a thing to be avoided, and perhaps she had already been sharp enough to realise this was a fact to be counted with. She was sharp enough, he said to himself, to see anything.
 
The function was a superb one. The house was superb, the rooms of entertainment were in every proportion perfect, and were quite renowned⁷² for the beauty of the space they offered; the people themselves were, through centuries of dignified living, so placed that intercourse with their kind was an easy and delightful⁷³ thing. They need never doubt either their own effect, or the effect of their hospitalities. Sir Nigel saw about him all the people who held enviable place in the county. Some of them he had never known, some of them had long ceased to recall his existence. There were those among them who lifted lorgnettes or stuck monocles into their eyes as he passed, asking each other in politely subdued⁷⁴ tones who the man was who seemed to be in attendance on Miss Vanderpoel. Nigel knew this and girded at it internally, while he made the most of his suave⁷⁵ smile.
 
The distinguished personage who was the chief guest was to be seen at the upper end of the room talking to a tall man with broad shoulders, who was plainly interesting him for the moment. As the Stornham party passed on, this person, making his bow, retired⁷⁶, and, as he turned towards them, Sir Nigel recognising him, the agreeable smile was for the moment lost.
 
“How in the name of Heaven did Mount Dunstan come here?” broke from him with involuntary heat.
 
“Would it be rash to conclude,” said Betty, as she returned the bow of a very grand old lady in black velvet⁷⁷ and an imposing⁷⁸ tiara, “that he came in response to invitation?”
 
The very grand old lady seemed pleased to see her, and, with a royal little sign, called her to her side. As Betty Vanderpoel was a great success with the Mrs. Weldens and old Dobys of village life, she was also a success among grand old ladies. When she stood before them there was a delicate submission⁷⁹ in her air which was suggestive of obedience⁸⁰ to the dignity of their years and state. Strongly conservative and rather feudal old persons were much pleased by this. In the present irreverent iconoclasm of modern times, it was most agreeable to talk to a handsome creature who was as beautifully attentive81

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