to commit himself by some act or words of folly.  The sound and sights of beauty, the rich odour of flowers, the music’s voluptuous swell, and last, but not least, the pressure of her gracious form and the glances from her eyes, which alone were enough to make fools of ninety-nine out of every hundred young men in Europe —­all these things combined to help her.  And to them must be added her determination, that concentrated strength of will employed to a single end, which, if there be any truth in the theories of the action of mind on mind, cannot fail to influence the individual on whom it is directed.

“Now, Arthur.”

The room was very nearly clear, for it was drawing towards daylight when they floated away together.  Oh! what a waltz that was!  The incarnate spirit of the dance took possession of them.  She waltzed divinely, and there was scarcely anything to check their progress.  On, on they sped with flying feet as the music rose and fell above them.  And soon things began to change for Arthur.  All sense of embarrassment and regret vanished from his mind, which now appeared to be capable of holding but one idea of the simplest and yet the most soaring nature.  He thought that he was in heaven with Mildred Carr.  On, still on; now he saw nothing but her shell-like face and the large flash of the circling diamonds, felt nothing but the pressure of her form and her odorous breath upon his cheek, heard nothing but the soft sound of her breathing.  Closer he clasped her; there was no sense of weariness in his feet or oppression in his lungs; he could have danced for ever.  But all too soon the music ceased with a crash, and they were standing with quick breath and sparkling eyes by the spot that they had started from.  Close by Miss Terry was sitting yawning.

“Agatha, say good-bye to those people for me.  I must get a breath of fresh air.  Give me a glass of water, please, Arthur.”

He did so, and, by way of composing his own nerves, took a tumbler of champagne.  He had no longer any thought of anxiety or danger, and he, too, longed for air.  They passed out into the garden, and, by a common consent, made their way to the museum verandah, which was, as it proved, quite deserted.

The night, which was drawing to its close, was perfect.  Far over the west the setting moon was sinking into the silver ocean, whilst the first primrose hue of dawn was creeping up the eastern sky.  It was essentially a dangerous night, especially after dancing and champagne —­a night to make people do and say regrettable things; for, as one of the poets—­is it not Byron?—­has profoundly remarked, there is the very devil in the moon at times.

They stood and gazed awhile at the softness of its setting splendours, and listened to the sounds of the last departing guests fading into silence, and to the murmurs of the quiet sea.  At last she spoke, very low and musically.

“I was angry with you.  I brought you here to scold you; but on such a night I cannot find the heart.”