It is already late, and there is no disposition to be seated.  Sligo Moultrie stands by Grace Plumer, and she is very glad and even grateful to him.  Abel, passing to and fro, looks at her occasionally, and can not possibly tell if her confusion is pain or pleasure.  There is a reckless gayety in the tone with which he speaks to the other ladies.  “Surely Mr. Newt was never so fascinating,” they all think in their secret souls; and they half envy Grace Plumer, for they know the little supper is given for her, and they think it needs no sibyl to say why, or to prophesy the future.

It is nearly midnight, and the moon is rising.  Hark!

A band pours upon the silent night the mellow, passionate wail of “Robin Adair.”  The bright company stands listening and silent.  The festive scene, the hour, the flowers, the luxury of the place, the beauty of the women, impress the imagination, and touch the music with a softer melancholy.  Hal Battlebury’s eyes are clear, but his heart is full of tears as he listens and thinks of Amy Waring.  He knows that all is in vain.  She has told him, with a sweet dignity that made her only lovelier and more inaccessible, that it can not be.  He is trying to believe it.  He is hoping to show her one day that she is wrong.  Listening, he follows in his mind the song the band is playing.

Sligo Moultrie feels and admires the audacious skill of Abel in crowning the feast with music.  Grace Plumer leans upon his arm.  Abel Newt’s glittering eyes are upon them.  It is the very moment he had intended to be standing by her side, to hold her arm in his, and to make her feel that the music which pealed in long cadences through the midnight, and streamed through the draped windows into the room, was the passionate entreaty of his heart, the irresistible pathos of the love he bore her.

Somehow Grace Plumer is troubled.  She fears the fascination she enjoys.  She dreads the assumption of power over her which she has observed in Abel.  She recoils from the cold blackness she has seen in his eyes.  She sees it at this moment again, in that glittering glance which slips across the room and holds her as she stands.  Involuntarily she leans upon Sligo Moultrie, as if clinging to him.

There is more music?—­a lighter, then a sadder and lingering strain.  It recedes slowly, slowly up the street.  The company stand in the pretty parlor, and not a word is spoken.  It is past midnight; the music is over.

“What a charming party!  Mr. Newt, how much we are obliged to you!” says Mrs. Godefroi Plumer, as Abel hands her into the carriage.

“The pleasure is all mine, Madame,” replies Mr. Newt, as he sees with bitterness that Sligo Moultrie stands ready to offer his hand to assist Miss Plumer.  The footman holds the carriage door open.  Miss Plumer can accept the assistance of but one, and Mr. Abel is resolved to know which one.

“Permit me, Miss Plumer,” says Sligo.