“Well it was vulgar” admitted Bertie, “especially applied to such an exquisite creature as Miss Heron—­Oh there she is with young Glarn!  They say that he is more than ready to lay his ducal coronet at her feet—­confound the young beggar!—­but she doesn’t give him the least encouragement to do so.  Look! she doesn’t appear to be listening to him, though he’s talking for all he’s worth.  And it’s the same with all of us:  we’re all dying with love for her, and for all she cares, we may die!”

Howard looked across the room and caught a glimpse of a tall, slim figure, a pale, ivory-tinted face with soft and silky black hair, dressed in the simplest fashion, and dark, violet eyes half hidden by their long lashes.  It was a lovely face and something more—­an impressive one:  it was a face, once seen, not easily forgotten.  Perhaps it was not its beauty, but a certain preoccupied expression, a sadness in the eyes and in the curve of the expressive lips, which made it so haunting a one.  She was exquisitely dressed, with a suggestion of mourning in the absence of diamonds and a touch of pale violet in the black lace frock.

“She is very beautiful,” said Howard; “and I can condole with you sincerely on the loss of your dance.”

“Yes, it’s nearly over now,” said Bertie, with a sigh.  “Talking of Stafford,” he said, after a minute, “when did you hear from him last?”

“To-day,” replied Howard.  “I have his letter in my pocket.”

“Still out in the backwoods?” asked Bertie.  “Poor old chap! awful piece of luck for him!  If his father had only gone on living and waited until that blessed company had come right side uppermost, he’d have been a millionaire.  Look at Griffenberg and the rest of ’em!” he nodded towards the group of financiers; “they’re simply rolling in money, rolling in it.”

“Yes, he’s still in the backwoods, as you call it,” responded Howard; “and from what he says I should think he’s having a pretty hard time of it; though, of course, he doesn’t complain:  there are some men still left who don’t complain.”  There was a pause, during which he had been thinking deeply, then he said:  “So Stafford knew Miss Heron, did he?”

Bertie looked mysterious and lowered his voice.

“Yes.  Look here, old chap, I shouldn’t say this to anyone but you; but you are Stafford’s great and only chum, and I know I can speak safely; to tell you the truth—­”

“Now you are going to tell me anything but the truth,” murmured Howard, with a sigh of resignation.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” retorted Bertie.  “What there is of it is the truth and nothing but the truth.  It isn’t much.  But I’ve a kind of idea that Stafford knew our new beauty better than we think.  Do you remember how he used to leave our party and go off by himself?  Not like Stafford, that, was it?  And one of our fellows remarked to me that one day coming home from a ride he saw Stafford riding with a lady.  He couldn’t swear to him, but—­well, Stafford’s hard to mistake.  Then, again, how was it he and Miss Heron were in at Maude Falconer’s death; and why did he bolt off to Australia again directly after the funeral?  And why is it that she keeps us all at arm’s length, even that confounded Glarn?”