You might just as well have a wax
rose from an artificial flower-maker while you are about it." Edie laughed and looked at Nellie. "See here," she said, taking up
Ernest's bunches from the little specimen vases where she had put them
to keep them fresh in water, "somebody else has thought of the flowers
already." Harold laughed, too, a little uneasily. "Aha," he said, "I see Ernest
has been beforehand with me as usual. I'm always a day too late. It
seems to me I'm the Esau of this duet, and Ernest's the Jacob. Well,
Miss Holt, you must take the will for the deed; and after all, one will
do for your dress and the other for your hair, won't they?" "Harold," said his father, as they went upstairs together to dress for
dinner, "Nellie Holt's a very nice girl, and I've reason to believe--you
know I don't judge these matters without documentary evidence--I have
reason to believe that she'll come into the greater part of old Stanley
Holt's money. She's his favourite niece, and she benefits largely, as I
happen to know, under his will. _Verbum sap._, my dear boy; she's a
pretty girl, and has sweet manners. In my opinion, she'd make----"

"My dear Pater," Harold exclaimed, interrupting him, "for Heaven's sake
don't say so. Pretty enough, I grant you; and no doubt old Stanley
Holt's money would be a very nice thing in its way; but just seriously
consider now, if you were a young man yourself, what on earth could you
see in Nellie Holt to attract your love or admiration? Why, she shrinks
and blushes every time she speaks to you. No, no, whenever I marry I
should like to marry a girl of some presence and some character." "Well, well," said his father, pausing a second at his bedroom door,
"perhaps if she don't suit you, Harold, she'll suit Ernest." "I should have thought, Pater, you knew us two better than that by this
time." "But, my dear Harold, you can't both marry the same woman!" "No, we can't, Pater, but it's my opinion we shall both fall unanimously
in love with her, at any rate, whenever we happen to see her." II. The Balfours were very rich people--city people; "something in the
stockbroking or bankruptcy line, I believe," Ernest Carnegie told Nelly
Holt succinctly as they drove round in the brougham with his sister; and
their dance was of the finest modern moneyed fashion. "Positively reeks
with Peruvian bonds and Deferred Egyptians, doesn't it?" said Harold, as
they went up the big open staircase and through the choice exotic
flowers on the landing. "Old Balfour has so much money, they say, that
if he tries his hardest he can't spend his day's income in the
twenty-four hours. He had a good hard try at it once. Prince of Wales or
somebody came to a concert for some sort of public purpose--hospital, or
something--and old B. got the whole thing up on the tallest possible
scale of expenditure. Spent a week in preparation. Had in dozens of
powdered footmen; ordered palms and orange-trees in boxes from Nice;
hung electric lights all over the drawing-room; offered Pattalini and
Goldoni three times as much for their services as the total receipts for
the charity were worth; and at the end of it all he called in a crack
accountant to reckon up the cost of the entertainment. Well, he found,
with all his efforts, he'd positively lived fifty pounds within his
week's income. Extraordinary, isn't it?" "Very extraordinary indeed," said Nellie, "if it's quite true, you
know." "You owe me the first waltz," Harold said, without noticing the
reservation. "Don't forget it, please, Miss Holt." "I say, Balfour," Ernest Carnegie observed to the son of the house,
shortly after they had entered the ballroom, "who's that beautiful tall
dark girl over there? No, not the pink one, that other girl behind her
in the deep red satin." "She? oh, she's nothing in particular," Harry Balfour answered
carelessly (the girl in pink was worth eighty thousand, and her figure
cast into the shade all her neighbours in Harry Balfour's arithmetical
eyes). "Her name's Walters, Isabel Walters, daughter of a lawyer
fellow--no offence meant to your profession, Carnegie. Let me see: you
_are_ the lawyer, aren't you? No knowing you two fellows apart, you
know, especially when you've got white ties on." "No, I'm not the lawyer fellow," Ernest answered quietly; "I'm the
doctor fellow. But it doesn't at all matter; we're used to it. Would you
mind introducing me to Miss Walters?" "Certainly not. Come along. I believe she's a very nice girl in her way,
you know, and dances capitally; but not exactly in our set, you see; not
exactly in our set." "I should have guessed as much to look at her," Ernest answered, with a
faint undertone of sarcasm in his voice that was quite thrown away upon
Harry Balfour. And he walked across the room after his host to ask
Isabel Walters for the first waltz. "Tall," he thought to himself as he looked at her: "dark, fine face,
beautiful figure, large eyes; makes her own dresses; strange sort of
person to meet at the Balfours' dances." Isabel Walters danced admirably. Isabel Walters talked cleverly. Isabel
Walters had a character and an individuality of her own. In five minutes
she had told Ernest Carnegie that she was the Poor Relation, and in that
quality she was asked once yearly to one of the Balfours' Less
Distinguished dances. "This is a Less Distinguished," she said quickly;
"but I suppose you go to the More Distinguished too?" "On the contrary," Ernest answered, laughing; "though I didn't know the
nature of the difference before, I've no doubt that I have to thank the
fact of my being Less Distinguished myself for the pleasure of meeting
you here this evening." Isabel smiled quietly. "It's a family distinction only," she said. "Of
course the Balfours wouldn't like the people they ask to know it. But we
always notice the difference ourselves. My mother, you know, was the
first Mrs. Balfour's half-sister. But in those days, I need hardly tell
you, Mr. Balfour hadn't begun to do great things in Grand Trunk
Preferences. Do you know anything about Grand Trunk Preferences?" "Absolutely nothing," Ernest replied. "But, to come down to a more
practical question: Are you engaged for the next Lancers?" "A square dance. Oh, why a square dance? I hate square dances." "I like them," said Ernest. "You can talk better." "And yet you waltz capitally. As a rule, I notice the men who like
square dances are the sticks who can't waltz without upsetting one. No,
I'm not engaged for the next Lancers. Yes, with pleasure." Ernest went off to claim little Nellie Holt from his brother. "By Jove, Ernest," Harold said, as he met him again a little later in
the evening, "that's a lovely girl you were dancing with just now. Who
is she?" "A Miss Walters," Ernest answered drily. "I'll go and get introduced to her," Harold went on, looking at his
brother with a searching glance. "She's the finest girl in the room, and
I should like to dance with her." "You think so?" said Ernest.