“But you must not remain with me,” Florence urges hurriedly.  “Your guests are awaiting you.  Probably”—­with a faint smile—­“your partner for this waltz is impatiently wondering what has become of you.”

“I think not,” says Adrian, returning her smile.  “Fortunately I have no one’s name on my card for this waltz.  I say fortunately, because I think”—­glancing at her tenderly—­“I have been able to bring back the smiles to your face sooner than would have been the case had you been left here alone to brood over your trouble, whatever it may be.”

“There is no trouble,” declares Florence, in a somewhat distressed fashion, turning her head restlessly to one side.  “I wish you would dispossess yourself of that idea.  And, do not stay here, they—­every one, will accuse you of discourtesy if you absent yourself from the ball-room any longer.”

“Then, come with me,” says Adrian.  “See, this waltz is only just beginning:  give it to me.”

Carried away by his manner, she lays her hand upon his arm, and goes with him to the ball-room.  There he passes his arm round her waist, and presently they are lost among the throng of whirling dancers, and both give themselves up for the time being to the mere delight of knowing that they are together.

Two people, seeing them enter thus together, on apparently friendly terms, regard them with hostile glances.  Dora Talbot, who is coquetting sweetly with a gaunt man of middle age, who is evidently overpowered by her attentions, letting her eyes rest upon Florence as she waltzes past her with Sir Adrian, colors warmly, and, biting her lip, forgets the honeyed speech she was about to bestow upon her companion, who is the owner of a considerable property, and lapses into silence, for which the gaunt man is devoutly grateful, as it gives him a moment in which to reflect on the safest means of getting rid of her without delay.

Dora’s fair brow grows darker and darker as she watches Florence, and notes the smile that lights her beautiful face as she makes some answer to one of Sir Adrian’s sallies.  Where is Dynecourt, that he has not been on the spot to prevent this dance, she wonders.  She grows angry, and would have stamped her little foot with impatient wrath at this moment, but for the fear of displaying her vexation.

As she is inwardly anathematizing Arthur, he emerges from the throng, and, the dance being at an end, reminds Miss Delmaine that the next is his.

Florence unwillingly removes her hand from Sir Adrian’s arm, and lays it upon Arthur’s.  Most disdainfully she moves away with him, and suffers him to lead her to another part of the room.  And when she dances with him it is with evident reluctance, as he knows by the fact that she visibly shrinks from him when he encircles her waist with his arm.

Sir Adrian, who has noticed none of these symptoms, going up to Dora, solicits her hand for this dance.