“Eh?—­what?—­I never noticed.”

“A man notice?” She laughed.  “But your game of billiards?  You are looking for some one.  If I will do—?”

“Delighted!” he Said with an accent of reserve.

Meanwhile the principal subject of this conversation had been walking slowly on the broad stone balcony toward the ball-room; there he had stopped; then stepping to the balustrade, he stood looking off.  The night was warm; in the sky, stars seemed trying to maintain their places between dark, floating clouds.  Near at hand the foliage shimmered with pale flashes of light; the perfumes of dew-laden flowers were like those of an oriental bower.  Faint rustlings, soft undertones broke upon the ear from dark places; mists seemed drawn like phantom ribbons, now here, now there.  He looked at the stars; watched one of them, very small, drop into the maw of a black-looking monster of vapor.  As it vanished the sound of music was wafted from within; John Steele listened; they were beginning once more to dance.

He glanced around; splashes of color met the eye; hues that shifted, mingled; came swiftly and went.  In the great hall, staring Lelys and Knellers looked down from their high, gilded frames; the glaring lights of a great crystal chandelier threw a flood of rays over the scene at once brilliant and dazzling.  Steele stepped toward the window, paused; his eyes seemed searching the throng.  They found what they sought, a slender, erect form, the gown soft, white, like foam; a face, animated, joyous.  For an instant only, however, he saw the beautiful features; then as Jocelyn turned in the dance, around her waist glimpsed a black band, tipped by slender masculine fingers; above, a cynical countenance.  Or was it all cynical now?  A brief glance showed more than the habitual expression, a sedulousness—­some passionate feeling?  Lord Ronsdale’s look seemed once more to say he held and claimed her; that she was his, or soon would be.

A fleeting picture; she was gone and other figures intervened.  John Steele stood with hands tightly clasped.  Then his gaze gradually lowered; he moved restlessly back and forth; but the music sounded louder and he walked away from it, to the end of the balcony and again looked off—­into darkness.

The moments passed; a distant buzz replaced melody; the human murmur, the scraping of strings.  From the forest came a far-away cry, the melancholy sound of some wood-creature.  He continued motionless, suddenly wheeled swiftly.

“That is you, Mr. Steele?” A voice, young, gay, sounded near; Jocelyn Wray came toward him; from her shoulders floated a white scarf.  “You have come out for the freshness of the garden?  Although,” she added, “you shouldn’t altogether seclude yourself from the madding crowd.”

“No?” In the eyes that met hers flashed a question, the question that he had ever been asking himself since coming to Strathorn House, that had driven him there.