“You talk as if you were an actress,” he said, with offended irony.  “I don’t understand your tone.  Does Miss Masters accompany you?”

“I think not.  Did you say you wanted to see her?”

“Particularly; it is chiefly for that I am here.”

“She is a very nice girl,” remarked his sister gently.  “I hope——­” She hesitated slightly; then held out her hand to him, which involuntarily he clasped.  “I hope you will have a satisfactory conversation, Charles.”

He glanced at her for a moment silently, feeling a secret pleasure in her discrimination.

“You look very well,” he said at last, “only rather tired.  That is a very pretty dress.”

She smiled vaguely.

“I didn’t know you ever noticed dresses.  Yes, I am rather tired.  Ah, there is Mary—­and Dick.”

The girl came towards them at this moment, looking pretty and distinguished in her square-cut, dark gown; and Lightmark followed, carrying her bouquet of great yellow roses, which he held appreciatively under his nose.

He nodded to Charles Sylvester, who was shaking hands with Mary; then he turned to his wife.

“If you are ready, dear,” he said lightly, “I expect the carriage is.  Miss Masters, you know we have another dance to do.  My brother-in-law will see after you and your bouquet, if you will allow me.”

“Oh, give it me, please,” cried the girl, with a nervous laugh.  “I really did not know you were carrying it.  Thanks so much.”

She had succeeded almost mechanically to Mrs. Lightmark’s vacated chair; and as she sat there, with her big nosegay on her lap, he was struck by her extreme pallor, the lassitude in her fine eyes.  He ventured to remark on it, when the other two had left them, and she had not made, as he had feared and half anticipated, any motion to rise.

“Yes, the rooms are hot and dreadfully full.  There are too many sweet-smelling flowers about; they make one faint.  It’s a relief to sit down in comparative quiet and calm for a little.”

He was emboldened by her quiescence to resume his chair at her side.

“I won’t ask you to dance, then,” he said; “and allow me to hope that no one else has done so.”

She glanced indifferently at her card.

“No. 10,” he added anxiously; “a waltz, after the Lancers.”

“I see some vague initials,” she said; “but probably my partner will not be able to find me, thanks to these shrubs.”

“I hope not, with all my heart,” said Charles devoutly.  “At any rate, I can sit with you until you are claimed.”

“As you like,” she replied wearily.  “Are you not anxious to dance?”

“I am not a great dancer at any time,” he protested; “and to-night my heart would be particularly out of it.  I came for another purpose.”

He spoke tensely, and there was a slight tremor in his voice, ordinarily so clear and dogmatic, which alarmed the girl so that she forgot her weariness and meditated a retreat.