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. And he turned away a little coldly to join
a group of loungers by the doorway.
"This is not _our_ Lancers yet, Mr. Carnegie," Isabel said, as Harold
stalked up to her with her cousin by his side. "Ours is number seven."
"I'm not the same Mr. Carnegie," Harold said, smiling, "though I see I
need no introduction now. I'm number seven's brother, and I've come to
ask whether I may have the pleasure of dancing number six with you."
Isabel looked up at him in doubt. "You are joking, surely," she said.
"You danced with me just now, the first waltz."
"You see my brother over by the door," Harold answered. "But we're quite
accustomed to be taken for one another. Pray don't apologize; we're used
to it."
Before the end of the evening Isabel Walters had danced three times with
Ernest Carnegie, and twice with Harold. Before the end of the evening,
too, Ernest and Harold were both at once deeply in love with her. She
was not perhaps what most men would call a lovable girl; but she was
handsome, clever, dashing, and decidedly original. Now, to both the
Carnegies alike, there was no quality in a woman so admirable as
individuality. Perhaps it was their own absolute identity of tastes and
emotions that made them prize the possession of a distinct personality
by others so highly; but in any case, there was no denying the fact that
they were both head over ears in love with Isabel Walters.
"She's a splendid girl, Edie," said Harold, as he went down with his
sister to the cab in which he was to take her home; "a splendid girl;
just the sort of girl I should like to marry."
"Not so nice by half as Nellie Holt," said Edie simply. "But there,
brothers never do marry the girls their sisters want them to."
"Very unreasonable of the brothers, no doubt," Harold replied, with a
slight curl of his lip: "but possibly explicable upon the ground that a
man prefers choosing a wife who'll suit himself to choosing one who'll
suit his sisters."
"Mother," said Ernest, as he took her down to the brougham, with little
Nellie Holt on his other arm, "that's a splendid girl, that Isabel
Walters. I haven't met such a nice girl as that for a long time."
"I know a great many nicer," his mother answered, glancing half
unconsciously towards Nellie, "but boys never do marry as their parents
would wish them."
"They do not, mother dear," said Ernest quietly. "It's a strange fact,
but I dare say it's partly dependent upon the general principle that a
man is more anxious to live happily with his own wife than to provide a
model daughter-in-law for his father and mother."
"Isabel," Mrs. Walters said to her daughter, as they took their seats in
the cab that was waiting for them at the door, "what on earth did you
mean by dancing five times in one evening with that young man with the
light moustache? And who on earth is he, tell me?"
"He's two people, mamma," Isabel answered seriously; "and I danced three
times with one of him, and twice with the other, I believe; at least so
he told me. His name's Carnegie, and half of him's called Ernest and the
other half Harold, though which I danced with which time I'm sure I
can't tell you. He's a pair of twins, in fact, one a doctor and one a
lawyer; and he talks just the same sort of talk in either case, and is
an extremely nice young man altogether. I really like him immensely."
"Carnegie!" said Mrs. Walters, turning the name over carefully. "Two
young Carnegies! How very remarkable! I remember somebody was speaking
to me about them, and saying they were absolutely indistinguishable.
Not sons of Mr. Carnegie, your uncle's solicitor, are they?"
"Yes; so Harry Balfour told me."
"Then, Isabel, they're very well off, I understand. I hope people won't
think you danced five times in the evening with only one of them. They
ought to wear some distinctive coat or something to prevent
misapprehensions. Which do you like best, the lawyer or the doctor?"
"I like them both exactly the same, mamma. There isn't any difference at
all between them, to like one of them better than the other for. They
both seem very pleasant and very clever. And as I haven't yet discovered
which is which, and didn't know from one time to another which I was
dancing with, I can't possibly tell you which I prefer of two
identicals. And as to coats, mamma, you know you couldn't expect one of
them to wear a grey tweed suit in a ballroom, just to show he isn't the
other one."
In the passage at the Carnegies', Ernest and Harold stopped one moment,
candle in hand, to compare notes with one another before turning into
their bedrooms. There was an odd constraint about their manner to each
other that they had never felt before during their twenty-three years of
life together.
"Well?" said Ernest, inquiringly, looking in a hesitating way at his
brother.
"Well?" Harold echoed, in the same tone.
"What did you think of it all, Harold?"
"I think, Ernest, I shall propose to Miss Walters."
There was a moment's silence, and a black look gathered slowly on Ernest
Carnegie's brow. Then he said very deliberately, "You are in a great
hurry coming to conclusions, Harold. You've seen very little of her yet;
and remember, it was I who first discovered her!"
Harold glanced at him angrily and half contemptuously.
"_You_ discovered her first!" he said. "Yes, and you are always
beforehand with me; but you shall not be beforehand with me this time. I
shall propose to her at once, to prevent your anticipating me. So now
you know my intentions plainly, and you can govern yourself
accordingly."
Ernest looked back at him with a long look from head to foot.
"It is war then," he said, "Harold; war, you will have it? We are
rivals?"
"Yes, rivals," Harold answered; "and war to the knife if so you wish
it."
"War?"
"War!"
"Good night, Harold."
"Good night, Ernest."
And they turned in to their bedrooms, in anger with one another, for the
first time since they had quarrelled in boyish fashion over tops and
marbles years ago together.