But, though Nina differed somewhat from Ayala as to their ideas as to life in general, they were close friends, and everything was done both by the Marchesa and by her daughter to make Ayala happy. There was not very much of going into grand society, and that difficulty about the dresses solved itself, as do other difficulties. There came a few presents, with entreaties from Ayala that presents of that kind might not be made. But the presents were, of course, accepted, and our girl was as prettily arrayed, if not as richly, as the best around her. At first there was an evening at the opera, and then a theatre — diversions which are easy. Ayala, after her six dull months in Kingsbury Crescent, found herself well pleased to be taken to easy amusements. The carriage in the park was delightful to her, and delightful a visit which was made to her by Lucy. For the Tringle carriage could be spared for a visit in Brook Street, even though there was still a remembrance in the bosom of Aunt Emmeline of the evil things which had been done by the Marchesa in Rome. Then there came a dance — which was not so easy. The Marchesa and Nina were going to a dance at Lady Putney’s, and arrangements were made that Ayala should be taken. Ayala begged that there might be no arrangements, declared that she would be quite happy to see Nina go forth in her finery. But the Marchesa was a woman who always had her way, and Ayala was taken to Lady Putney’s dance without a suspicion on the part of any who saw her that her ball-room apparatus was not all that it ought to be.

Ayala when she entered the room was certainly a little bashful. When in Rome, even in the old days at the bijou, when she did not consider herself to be quite out, she had not been at all bashful. She had been able to enjoy herself entirely, being very fond of dancing, conscious that she could dance well, and always having plenty to say for herself. But now there had settled upon her something of the tedium, something of the silence, of Kingsbury Crescent, and she almost felt that she would not know how to behave herself if she were asked to stand up and dance before all Lady Putney’s world. In her first attempt she certainly was not successful. An elderly gentleman was brought up to her — a gentleman whom she afterwards declared to be a hundred, and who was, in truth, over forty, and with him she manoeuvred gently through a quadrille. He asked her two or three questions to which she was able to answer only in monosyllables. Then he ceased his questions, and the manoeuvres were carried on in perfect silence. Poor Ayala did not attribute any blame to the man. It was all because she had been six months in Kingsbury Crescent. Of course this aged gentleman, if he wanted to dance, would have a partner chosen for him out of Kingsbury Crescent. Conversation was not to be expected from a gentleman who was made to stand up with Kingsbury Crescent. Any powers of talking that had ever belonged to herself had of course evaporated amidst the gloom of Kingsbury Crescent. After this she was returned speedily to the wings of the Marchesa, and during the next dance sat in undisturbed peace. Then suddenly, when the Marchesa had for a moment left her, and when Nina had just been taken away to join a set, she saw the man of silence coming to her from a distance, with an evident intention of asking her to stand up again. It was in his eye, in his toe, as he came bowing forward. He had evidently learned to suppose that they two outcasts might lessen their miseries by joining them together. She was to dance with him because no one else would ask her! She had plucked up her spirit and resolved that, desolate as she might be, she would not descend so far as that, when, in a moment, another gentleman sprang in, as it were, between her and her enemy, and addressed her with free and easy speech as though he had known her all her life. “You are Ayala Dormer, I am sure,” said he. She looked up into his face and nodded her head at him in her own peculiar way. She was quite sure that she had never set her eyes on him before. He was so ugly that she could not have forgotten him. So at least she told herself. He was very, very ugly, but his voice was very pleasant. “I knew you were, and I am Jonathan Stubbs. So now we are introduced, and you are to come and dance with me.”

She had heard the name of Jonathan Stubbs. She was sure of that, although she could not at the moment join any facts with the name. “But I don’t know you,” she said, hesitating. Though he was so ugly he could not but be better than that ancient dancer whom she saw standing at a distance, looking like a dog that has been deprived of his bone.

“Yes, you do,” said Jonathan Stubbs, and if you’ll come and dance I’ll tell you about it. The Marchesa told me to take you.”

“Did she?” said Ayala, getting up, and putting her little hand upon his arm.

“I’ll go and fetch her if you like; only she’s a long way off, and we shall lose our place. She’s my aunt.”

“Oh,” said, Ayala, quite satisfied — remembering now that she had heard her friend Nina boast of a Colonel cousin, who was supposed to be the youngest Colonel in the British army, who had done some wonderful thing — taken a new province in India, or marched across Africa, or defended the Turks — or perhaps conquered them. She knew that he was very brave — but why was he so very ugly? His hair was ruby red, and very short; and he had a thick red beard: not silky, but bristly, with each bristle almost a dagger — and his mouth was enormous. His eyes were very bright, and there was a smile about him, partly of fun, partly of good humour. But his mouth! And then that bristling beard! Ayala was half inclined to like him, because he was so completely master of himself, so unlike the unhappy ancient gentleman who was still hovering at a distance. But why was he so ugly? And why was he called Jonathan Stubbs?

“There now,” he said, we can’t get in at any of the sets. That’s your fault.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Ayala.

“Yes, it is. You wouldn’t stand up till you had heard all about me.”

“I don’t know anything about you now.”

“Then come and walk about and I’ll tell you. Then we shall be ready for a waltz. Do you waltz well?”

“Do you?”

“I’ll back myself against any Englishman, Frenchman, German, or Italian, for a large sum of money. I can’t come quite up to the Poles. The fact is, the honester the man is the worse he always dances. Yes; I see what you mean. I must be a rogue. Perhaps I am — perhaps I’m only an exception. I knew your father.”

“Papa!”

“Yes, I did. He was down at Stalham with the Alburys once. That was five years ago, and he told me he had a daughter named Ayala. I didn’t quite believe him.”

“Why not?”

“It is such an out-of-the-way name.”

“It’s as good as Jonathan, at any rate.” And Ayala again nodded her head.

“There’s a prejudice about Jonathan, as there is about Jacob and Jonah. I never could quite tell why. I was going to marry a girl once with a hundred thousand pounds, and she wouldn’t have me at last because she couldn’t bring her lips to say Jonathan. Do you think she was right?”

“Did she love you?” said Ayala, looking up into his face.

“Awfully! But she couldn’t bear the name; so within three months she gave herself and all her money to Mr Montgomery Talbot de Montpellier. He got drunk, and threw her out of the window before a month was over. That’s what comes of going in for sweet names.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Ayala.

“Very well. Didn’t Septimus Traffick marry your cousin?”

“Of course he did, about a month ago.”

“He is another friend of mine. Why didn’t you go to your cousin’s marriage?”

“There were reasons,” said Ayala.

“I know all about it,” said the Colonel. You quarrelled with Augusta down in Scotland, and you don’t like poor Traffick because he has got a bald head.”

“I believe you’re a conjuror,” said Ayala.

“And then your cousin was jealous because you went to the top of St Peter’s, and because you would walk with Mr Traffick on the Pincian. I was in Rome, and saw all about it.”

“I won’t have anything more to do with you,” said Ayala.

“And then you quarrelled with one set of uncles and aunts, and now you live with another.”

“Your aunt told you that.”

“And I know your cousin, Tom Tringle.”

“You know Tom?” asked Ayala.

“Yes; he was ever so good to me in Rome about a horse; I like Tom Tringle in spite of his chains. Don’t you think, upon the whole, if that young lady had put up with Jonathan she would have done better than marry Montpellier? But now they’re going to waltz, come along.”

Thereupon Ayala got up and danced with him for the next ten minutes. Again and again before the evening was over she danced with him; and although, in the course of the night, many other partners had offered themselves, and many had been accepted, she felt that Colonel Jonathan Stubbs had certainly been the partner of the evening. Why should he be so hideously ugly? said Ayala to herself, as ............