As you say, it is the last ball of the season. Tomorrow I shall do penance.” And drawing her cloak close, with a suppressed cough, she swept out of the room. The Duchess of Westmoreland’s ball, at Lochiel House, was a very grand & a very brilliant affair, & a very fitting finale to one of the gayest seasons that people could recall. Everybody (that is, as her Grace expressively said, “everybody that is anybody”) was there; & the darling of the night was, as usual, the fascinating Lady Breton. White as her white dress, unrelieved by a shade of colour, she came in on her husband’s arm; people remembered afterwards, how strangely, deadly pale she was. But she danced continually, talked & laughed with everyone more graciously than ever, & raised the hearts of I don’t know how many desponding lovers by her charming gayety & goodnature. She was resting after the last quadrille, when the Duke of Westmoreland himself, came up to her, with the inexpressibly relieved air of a model host who, having done his duty by all the ugly dowagers in the room, finds himself at liberty to follow his own taste for a few moments. “I don’t think” he said, answering Georgie’s greeting “that you have seen the Duchess’s new conservatories. Will you let me be your cicerone?” “How did you guess, Duke,” she returned, gaily “that I was longing to escape from the heat & light? Do take me, if I am not carrying you off from any more—agreeable—duty!” “My duty is over,” said the Duke, smiling. “But you are coughing tonight, Lady Breton, & I cannot allow you to go into the cooler air without a wrap.” Signing to a servant, he sent for a soft fur mantle, & having folded it carefully about Georgie’s shoulders, led her on his arm through the long & brilliant suites. Followed by many an envious & many an admiring eye, she walked on with her proud step, talking lightly & winningly to her noble escort, until they reached the folding doors of the great conservatories. The Duke led her in, & they paused on the threshold looking down the green vista of gorgeous tropical plants. The gay dance-music came like a soft echo from the distant ball-room, mingling with the clear tinkle of fountains that tossed their spray amid the branching ferns & palm-trees on which the Chinese lanterns swung from the ceiling, shed an unreal, silvery glow. For a moment neither spoke; then Georgie looked up at her host with a bright smile. “Fairyland!” she exclaimed. “No one shall persuade me that this is the work of anyone less ethereal than Queen Mab herself! Is it real? Will it last?” “I hope so,” his Grace answered, laughing; “it would be a pity that her Elfin Majesty’s work should vanish in a single night.” “Only, as children say, ‘it is too good to be true,’ ” said Georgie, merrily. “At least, to us lesser mortals, who are not accustomed to all the marvels of Lochiel House.” “Will you come on a little further?” said the Duke, well-pleased. “I want to shew you some rare ferns. Here they are.” And so they passed along the aisle of mingled green, in the soft moonlike radiance; pausing here & there to admire or discuss the Duke’s favourite specimens. At the end of the long, cool bower a broad ottoman stood in a recess filled with ferns; & Georgie asked to sit down before entering the next conservatory. “You are tiring yourself, Lady Breton?” asked the Duke, anxiously, sitting down beside her, & drawing the mantle, which had slipped down, over her shoulder. “No, not tired, indeed,” she answered, “but half dizzy with so much beauty. I must sit still to be able to enjoy it perfectly—sit still, & drink it in.” “It is a relief after the crowded rooms,” assented his Grace. “I was longing to be here all the evening.” “I cannot wonder. Do you know, Duke,” said Georgie, laughing, “if I were disposed to be sentimental I should say that I envied the gardener who has these conservatories in charge more than anyone in Lochiel House!” The Duke echoed her laugh. “If it suits you to be sentimental just now, Lady Breton, the gardener—an old protégé of mine—is a very fit subject. He has a romance attached to him.” “Better & better!” cried Georgie. “He can come in here & dream of it!” “I daresay though—poor fellow!—he would rather forget it,” said the Duke. Georgie started slightly, & a strange look came into her eyes. “Oh, if we could but forget,” she half-whispered; then, in a different tone: “but what of the gardener? I will not let you off with that story; you must play Princess Scheherazade, Duke!” “Most obediently, though poor Watson probably never intended his poor little love-affair to serve such a grand purpose.