To speak of luck is often nothing more than another mode of expressing the success that usually attends foresight; chance favours the wise calculation. Helena last night had dropped the most casual hint to Lord Harlow that she was probably going to this dance to-night, but she was satisfied that he had been attending, and was not unprepared to see him there. Even if she had not been able to come, she suspected that he would do so, and her absence would have been delightfully explained to him afterwards. But there he was, not dancing, but standing about near the door of the ball-room, and quite obviously interested in arrivals. Undoubtedly he saw the brilliant entry of herself and Archie, but she contrived to put a few of the crowd between herself and him as she passed near him, and for the present gave him no more than a glance and a smile, a downdropt eye, and then one glance again, and passed with Archie into the ball-room. There an ordinary old-fashioned waltz was in progress, and not one of those anaemic strollings about which were becoming popular, and she slid off with her radiant partner on to a floor not overfull. She had a moment's misgiving when she remembered that Archie had said he couldn't dance, for it would vex her to appear in the clutch of a bungler; but, after all, Archie could hardly be awkward if he tried. Immediately all her fears vanished, for they had hardly gone up the short side of the room before she knew that if any one was the bungler it was she. She might have guessed, from seeing him walk and move, that he could dance; what she could not have guessed was that anybody could dance like this. They floated, they glided; it was the floor surely that moved under them; it was the wind of that swinging, voluptuous tune that wafted them on as in some clear eddy of sunlit water.
"But, my dear, you said you couldn't dance," she exclaimed.
