His partner laughed; she was a bright little brunette, flushed with the dance, and thoroughly happy.

“Why should we wear our hearts upon our sleeves for cynics such as you to peck at?” she replied.  “The art of dissembling is one of our few privileges.  But do you think the Countess is angry?  She is so beautiful.”

“Marvellous!” exclaimed the cynic, raising his eyebrows.  “Dear Lady Chetwold, is it possible that I hear one beautiful woman praise another’s looks?”

The little lady flushed.

“It would be a greater marvel still if you men gave us credit for just a little generosity.  But, tell me Mr. Shelton, where is Adrien Leroy?”

“My dear lady,” said Shelton, with a wicked twinkle in his eyes, “if I knew that Lady Merivale would be down on me like the proverbial load of bricks.  He was to have been here; but his movements are as uncertain as her ladyship’s smiles.  See, she has fairly extinguished poor Hadley—­drowned in sweetness!”

“You are a horror,” laughed his companion as the waltz came to an end.  “I shall be quite afraid of you in the future—­I’d no idea you were so cynical.”

“I could never be cynical with you,” he said gallantly.  “By the way, have you seen Prince Pfowsky to-night?”

“Yes,” said Lady Chetwold, “I am engaged to him for the next dance—­if he remembers it.  He is always so forgetful.”

“‘Put not your trust in princes,’” quoted Shelton.  “But if his Highness should be so ungrateful, perhaps you will allow me the pleasure——­”

“Certainly not,” she retorted brightly; “Caesar or nothing!”

“And here he comes,” laughed Mortimer; adding softly, as the Prince came up to claim his partner, “and here is some one even more interesting—­look.”

Lady Chetwold followed the direction of his gaze and saw Adrien Leroy advancing up the rose-decked room.  As usual, his appearance created something like a stir, for he was popular with men and women alike, and no smart gathering seemed quite complete without him.  But the young man appeared totally unconscious of the interest he was evoking as he bent over his hostess’s hand with a murmured greeting, then turned to make his bow to the Prince, who, as firm an admirer as the rest of Society, had paused to exchange a word before the dance commenced.

Adrien sank on to the velvet lounge beside the Countess.

“Don’t scold me, belle amie,” he said in his soft tones; “lay the blame on Mr. Paxhorn.  I dined with him at the club.  You know what Paxhorn is—­there was simply no getting away.  But, now, have you saved me a dance?”

“You do not deserve one,” she said, all the irritation melting beneath the magic of his smile and the music of his voice.

“It’s a mercy,” he retorted lightly, “that one does not get all one’s deserts in this world!”

“I saved you the next,” she said, giving him her programme.  “You see, I am as foolishly forgiving as ever.”