“Aunt!” exclaimed the lady, “is it true that I always dance every dance?”

“No indeed!” chimed in Miss Candlish, “far from it.  No doubt you would get partners for all if you wished.”

“And is it true,” she continued, “that I wish to go to these ridiculous soirees?”

“Certainly not, indeed,” said the Drag, “nor do I wish to go, I am sure!”

“In that case I can dispose of your ticket,” said he.  Unlucky man!  In these cases there is no via media.  A man should either resist to the death or submit with as good a grace as he can.  Half measures are fatal.

“No, my dear, you cannot dispose of that ticket,” said his wife, “and I take it as very unkind in you to speak to Aunt in that manner.  It is not because she is poor, and dependent upon us, that she is to be sneered at and ill-treated.”  At this speech the Drag burst into tears, and declared that she always knew that Mr. Porkington hated her; that she might be poor and old and ugly, etc., etc., but she little expected to be called so by him; that she would not go to the ball now, if he implored her on his knees, and so on, and so on.

Now, who could have thought it?  All this fuss was occasioned by Mr. P. having meanly backed out of giving Mrs. P. a new dress in which to electrify the fashionable world at Babbicombe.  Ah me!  Let us hope that in some far distant planet there may be some better world where all unfortunate creatures,—­dogs which have had tin kettles tied to their tails,—­cockchafers which have been spun upon pins,—­poor men who have been over-crawed by wives, aunts, mothers-in-law, and other terrors,—­donkeys which have been undeservedly belaboured by costermongers,—­and authors who have been meritoriously abused by critics,—­rest together in peace in a sort of happy family.

At this point Barton, Glenville, Thornton, and I all entered the room.

“Oh, I am so glad to see the ladies are ready,” said Thornton.  “This will be our last ball, and we ought to make a happy evening of it.  Are you not sorry we are coming to the end of our gaieties, Miss Candlish?”

“Sorry!” exclaimed the Drag, ferociously.  “Sorry!  I never was more pleased—­pleased—­pleased!” Every time she repeated the word “pleased” she launched it at the head of the unfortunate tutor, as if she hoped her words would turn into brickbats ere they reached him.

“I am glad to see you are going, however,” said Glenville.

“There you are mistaken,” said the Aunt, “for Mr. Porkington has been so very kind as to say he had rather I did not go.”

“Really, really,” cried Porkington, “I can assure you it is quite the reverse.  I am so misunderstood that really I am sure I can’t tell—­”

“Oh, pray do not disappoint us in our last evening together, Miss Candlish,” said Glenville, coming to the rescue of the unfortunate tutor, and speaking in his most fascinating manner, “I have hoped for the pleasure of a quadrille and lancers and” (with an effort) “a waltz with you this evening if you will allow me.”