"Halloo, Howard!" he exclaimed. "Pretty old scrimmage, isn't it? Should
have thought your languid grace would have kept out of this sight. I've
given a dance to a girl, but dash my best necktie if I can find her:
might as well look for a needle in a bottle of hay--as if any fellow
would be such a fool as to put a needle in such a place. I'm jolly mad
at losing her, I can tell you, for she's the prettiest girl in the
room, and I had to fight like a coal-heaver to get a dance from her.
And now I can't find her: just my luck!"

"What is the name of the prettiest girl in the room?" asked Howard,
languidly.

"Oh, it's the new beauty, of course," replied Bertie, with a superior
little shrug at Howard's ignorance. "It's Miss. Heron of Herondale, the
great heiress."

Howard pricked up his ears, but maintained his languid and
half-indifferent manner.

"Miss Heron of Herondale," he said in his slow voice. "Don't think I've
met her."

"No? Dessay not. She doesn't go out much, and Lady Clansford thinks
it's rather a feather in her cap getting her here to-night. When you
see her you won't say I've over-praised her. She's more than pretty,
and she'd be the bright and particular star of the season if she didn't
keep in her shell so much."