“I remember.  Oh, yes, she came here.  It was in this house I met her first, off the stage, I believe.”

“What a sweet memory!  Wasn’t Mrs. George awfully jealous of her husband when he had such a fascinating beauty for his leading lady?”

“I never heard that she was.”

“You needn’t look cross with me.  I’m not saying anything against your gorgeous Maxine.”

“Of course not.  Nobody could.  But you mustn’t call Miss de Renzie ’my Maxine,’ please, Imp.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said.  “You see, I’ve heard other people call her that—­in joke.  And you dedicated your book about Lhassa, that made you such a famous person, to her, didn’t you?”

“No.  What made you think that?” He was really annoyed now, and I was pleased—­if anything could please me, in my despair.

“Why, everybody thinks it.  It was dedicated to ‘M.R.’ as if the name were a secret, so—­”

“‘Everybody’ is very stupid then.  ‘M.R.’ is an old lady, my god-mother, who helped me with money for my expedition to Lhassa, otherwise I couldn’t have gone.  And she isn’t of the kind that likes to see her name in print.  Now, where shall I take you, Imp?  Because I must go and look for Mrs. Allendale.”

“I’ll stay where I am, thank you,” I said, “and watch you dance—­from far off.  That’s my part in life, you know:  watching other people dance from far off.”

When he was gone, I leaned back among the cushions, and I wasn’t sure that one of my heart attacks would not come on.  I felt horribly alone, and deserted; and though I hate Di, and always have hated her, ever since the tiny child and her mother (a beautiful, rich, young Californian widow) came into my father’s house in New York, she does know how to manage me better than anyone else, when I am in such moods.  I could have screamed for her, as I sat there helplessly looking through the open doors:  and then, at last, I saw her, as if my wish had been a call which had reached her ears over the music in the ballroom.

She had stopped dancing, and with her partner (Lord Robert, again) entered the room which lay between our “den” and the ballroom, Probably they would have gone on to the conservatory, which can be reached in that way, but I cried her name as loudly as I could, and she heard.  Only a moment she paused—­long enough to send Lord Robert away—­and then she came straight to me.  He must have been furious:  but I didn’t care for that.

I had been wanting her badly, but when I saw her, so bright and beautiful, looking as if she were the joy of life made incarnate, I should have liked to strike her hard, first on one cheek and then the other, deepening the rose to crimson, and leaving an ugly red mark for each finger.

“Have you a headache, dear?” she asked, in that velvet voice she keeps for me—­as if I were a thing only fit for pity and protection.

“It’s my heart,” said I.  “It feels like a clock running down.  Oh, I wish I could die, and end it all!  What’s the good of me—­to myself or anyone?”