With scarcely a pause he offered her his arm.

“You dance the waltz?”

She hesitated for a second; then, with an affirmatory murmur, accepted the proffered arm.  The bold stare with which he met her look had in it something of compulsion.

He led her instantly away from her retreat, and in a moment his hand was upon her waist.  He guided her into the gay stream of dancers without a word.

They began to waltz—­a dream—­waltz in which she seemed to float without effort, without conscious volition.  Instinctively she responded to his touch, keenly, vibrantly aware of the arm that supported her, of the dark, free eyes that persistently sought her own.

“Faith!” he suddenly said in his soft, Irish voice.  “To find Una without the lion is a piece of good fortune I had scarcely prayed for.  And what was the persuasion that you used at all to keep the monster in his den?”

She glanced up, half-startled by his speech.  What did this man know about her?

“If you mean my husband,” she said at last, “I did not persuade him.  He never wished or intended to come.”

Her companion laughed as one well pleased.

“Very generous of him!” he commented, in a tone that sent the blood to her cheeks.

He guided her dexterously among the dancers.  The girl’s breath came quickly, unevenly, but her feet never faltered.

“If I were the lion,” said her partner daringly, “by the powers, I’d play the part!  I wouldn’t be a tame beast, egad!  If Una went out to a fancy ball, my faith, I would go too!”

Lady Brooke uttered a little, excited laugh.  The words caught her interest.

“And suppose Una went without your leave?” she said.

The Irishman looked at her with a humorous twist at one corner of his mouth.

“I’m thinking that I’d still go too,” he said.

“But if you didn’t know?” She asked the question with a curious vehemence.  Her instinct told her that, however he might profess to trifle, here at least was a man.

“That wouldn’t happen,” he said, with conviction, “if I were the lion.”

The music was quickening to the finale, and she felt the strong arm grow tense about her.

“Come!” he said.  “We will go into the garden.”

She went with him because it seemed that she must, but deep in her heart there lurked a certain misgiving.  There was an almost arrogant air of power about this man.  She wondered what Sir Roland would say if he knew, and comforted herself almost immediately with the reflection that he never could know.  He had gone to Scotland, and she did not expect him back for several weeks.

So she turned aside with this stranger, and passed out upon his arm into the dusk of the soft spring night.

“You know these gardens well?” he questioned.

She came out of her meditations.

“Not really well.  Lady Blythebury and I are friends, but we do not visit very often.”