London cobbled, odoriferous, and yet the acme of ordered and mannered beauty, was the stage across which Alice numbly floated. Controlled since the Great Fire by Building Acts which laid down the ceiling heights, types of materials and numbers of stories to be used in every class of street, London spread out in street after street of exquisitely proportioned houses of brown and gray brick with their unadorned faces of freestone sash, the same neat white pillars on either side of their pedimented doors.

It had been a long hard winter followed by a brief, icy, squally spring.

At long last, on this very eve of the London Season, the weather had decided to favor the top ten thousand by turning warm and balmy. A pale green sky stretched high above Manchester Square. In hundreds of bedrooms nearby, young ladies were getting ready to plunge into the Marriage Market and emerge with a husband. What other ambition was there for a properly brought up young miss? Orchestras tuned up, hothouse flowers were banked against walls, elegant suppers prepared, flambeaux lit—and hearts trembled with excitement as girls armed themselves for the all-important battle to come with all their weapons at the ready—fan, smelling salts and seductive smile.

But for Alice, each evening as the blue shadows garnered at the end of the streets and the lamplighter made his rounds with his oil can, was another little death, as night after night she lost hope that he would come.

She felt sad and tired and badly dressed and Miss Snapper irritated her beyond reason. Now the fact that Miss Snapper was beginning to irritate the meek Alice should have been a sign to the girl that she was slowly coming back to life. But she was unaware of this and simply began to tap her foot as Miss Snapper’s intense voice grated in her ears.

“You must sparkle a little more, Alice. You want animation. You should not be vulgar, of course, and put yourself forward. Your so dear uncle would agree with me, I am sure. We both know what is best for you.”

“My uncle,” said Alice with a rare flash of spirit, “would not approve of your calling me by my Christian name instead of my title.”

Miss Snapper studied this spark of rebellion with avid interest and then proceeded to stamp it out.

“Tish, child,” she cried, tripping forward and winding one long bony arm around Alice’s waist. “Are we not the dearest of friends? Don’t I dote on you? You are frightened because it is the opening ball of the Season. But you shall come about. Let us descend to the drawing room and await the carriage. What think you of my gown?”