Rising from these positions, breathless and unkempt, it struck them for the first time that the electric lights pricked the air very vainly, and instinctively a great many eyes turned to the windows.  Yes—­there was the dawn.  While they had been dancing the night had passed, and it had come.  Outside, the mountains showed very pure and remote; the dew was sparkling on the grass, and the sky was flushed with blue, save for the pale yellows and pinks in the East.  The dancers came crowding to the windows, pushed them open, and here and there ventured a foot upon the grass.

“How silly the poor old lights look!” said Evelyn M. in a curiously subdued tone of voice.  “And ourselves; it isn’t becoming.”  It was true; the untidy hair, and the green and yellow gems, which had seemed so festive half an hour ago, now looked cheap and slovenly.  The complexions of the elder ladies suffered terribly, and, as if conscious that a cold eye had been turned upon them, they began to say good-night and to make their way up to bed.

Rachel, though robbed of her audience, had gone on playing to herself.  From John Peel she passed to Bach, who was at this time the subject of her intense enthusiasm, and one by one some of the younger dancers came in from the garden and sat upon the deserted gilt chairs round the piano, the room being now so clear that they turned out the lights.  As they sat and listened, their nerves were quieted; the heat and soreness of their lips, the result of incessant talking and laughing, was smoothed away.  They sat very still as if they saw a building with spaces and columns succeeding each other rising in the empty space.  Then they began to see themselves and their lives, and the whole of human life advancing very nobly under the direction of the music.  They felt themselves ennobled, and when Rachel stopped playing they desired nothing but sleep.

Susan rose.  “I think this has been the happiest night of my life!” she exclaimed.  “I do adore music,” she said, as she thanked Rachel.  “It just seems to say all the things one can’t say oneself.”  She gave a nervous little laugh and looked from one to another with great benignity, as though she would like to say something but could not find the words in which to express it.  “Every one’s been so kind—­so very kind,” she said.  Then she too went to bed.

The party having ended in the very abrupt way in which parties do end, Helen and Rachel stood by the door with their cloaks on, looking for a carriage.

“I suppose you realise that there are no carriages left?” said St. John, who had been out to look.  “You must sleep here.”

“Oh, no,” said Helen; “we shall walk.”

“May we come too?” Hewet asked.  “We can’t go to bed.  Imagine lying among bolsters and looking at one’s washstand on a morning like this—­Is that where you live?” They had begun to walk down the avenue, and he turned and pointed at the white and green villa on the hillside, which seemed to have its eyes shut.