He had dreamed of such women, but he had not thought they existed; they belonged to the heroic ages, past now and dead.  Here, in the midst of the days he considered so degenerate, he had found the very ideal of his heart.

The brilliant scene before him seemed to fade away.  Ah! if there was but some faint chance of distinguishing himself for her sake!—­if she were but a princess in distress!—­a lady for whom he could enter the lists and fight until he won!  What was there in this prosaic century that he could do for her?—­literally nothing but give her flowers.

“Basil!  Basil! my dear boy,” said a voice near him.  “Pray excuse me, but what are you doing here?  Dreaming in a ballroom?  This will not do.”

And Basil, aroused from his dream, looked up to see the face of Colonel Mostyn, wearing an expression of perfect horror.

“Do rouse up, Basil!  Do, for heaven’s sake, try to be like every one else!  Lady Masham wishes to know you; come with me.”

Basil followed, like a victim.  Lady Masham received him cordially, mentioned casually that she had been to school with his mother, therefore felt called upon to take a special interest in himself, and then, very kindly, introduced him to her youngest daughter, Miss Nellie, whom she pathetically called the flower of her flock.  Miss Nellie was a pretty girl, as were all the Misses Masham, or they would not have figured at her grace’s ball.  She wore the regulation chignon, golden brown in her case, her eyes were blue, her lips rosy and sweet, her face fair as the lilies and roses of summer.  They had all been brought up after the same pattern; they all knew exactly what to say in every case and how to say it.  As a matter of course, and not, it is to be feared, because he felt the least inclination, Basil asked the young lady to dance, and Miss Nellie, with the prettiest pink flush on her cheek, consented.

She talked about the rooms, the opera, the archduke, until Basil almost groaned aloud.  There was his beautiful queen, with her face full of poetry and her eyes of love.  Yet if he could but have had both hearts, he would have seen that pretty, simple Nellie Masham, who talked innocent little commonplaces to him, was worth a thousand of such women as Lady Amelie Lisle.  But it is not given to men to see clearly; anything but that.  When Basil Carruthers had finished that dance he longed to escape, lest he should be compelled to go through another.  Then came another moment of rapture for him, when, from the midst of a crowd of courtiers, Lady Amelie summoned him to take her to her carriage.  Already they seemed like old friends.  Basil drew the lace shawl around the white shoulders and held her flowers.

“You have told me I may call,” he said; “will you tell me when?”

“I am visible any time after two,” said Lady Amelie.  Not for any amount of love or homage would she forego her comforts.  Then it seemed to him that the world stopped until two the next day.  He went back to the ballroom, but its beauty had all departed—­there was no soul in the music, no fragrance in the flowers.