The hot blood ebbed back in Guy Livingstone’s veins, and froze at its fountain-head.  His punishment had begun already.  Before her face, white as the dress she wore, was revealed through a break in the dark green foliage of the camellias, he knew that he had trifled away his life’s happiness, and lost Constance Brandon.

She came forward slowly.  With a valiant effort she had shaken off the first feeling of faintness that had crept over her, and there was scarcely a trace of emotion left on her features—­calm and pale as the Angel of Death.

Guy had risen, and stood still, with his head bent down on his breast.  For the first time in his life he was unable to raise his eyes, weighed down by the heavy sense of bitter disgrace and forfeited honor.

But the bright flush on Flora’s cheek spoke more of exultation than of shame; the bouquet which she raised to her lips only half concealed a smile of triumph.  She wreathed her slender neck haughtily while she met her rival’s glance without flinching.  She thought that, if she had played for a heavy stake—­no less than the jeopardy of her fair fame—­this time, at least, the game was her own.

Constance spoke first, in a voice perfectly measured and composed.  There was not a false note in the soft, musical tones.  After once conquering her emotion, she would have dropped dead at Flora’s feet sooner than betray how she was wounded.

“When you have taken Miss Bellasys back, will you come to me for a moment, Mr. Livingstone?  I will wait for you here.”

Flora rose before Guy could answer.  “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, gayly.  “Here is my partner for the polka looking anxiously for me.  I am ready, Captain Ravenswood.”

She turned, before reaching the door, to fire a last shot.

“It is the next galop I am to keep for you, is it not?”

This was to Guy; but there was no answer.  He stood in precisely the same attitude, without a muscle of his face stirring or an eyelash quivering.

In all the Rifle Brigade there was not a more reckless dare-devil than Harry Ravenswood, nor one who adhered more devoutly to the convenient creed, “All is fair in war or love.”  But he saw that something had happened quite out of his line; and he did not venture on a single allusion to it as he led his partner back to the dancing-room, with a perplexed expression on his cheery face, which amused Flora intensely when she remarked it.  When the subject came on for discussion afterward in the smoking-room at his club, he thus expressed himself, in language terse and elegantly allegorical.

“You see, Livingstone is a very heavy weight; a good deal better than most in the ring.  When I saw him so floored as not to be able to come to time, I knew there had been some hard hitting going on thereabouts, so I kept clear.”

The two who were left alone in the conservatory remained silent for a few seconds.  Then Guy roused himself, and offered his arm to his companion with an impulse of courtesy that was simply mechanical.  She took it without remark, and they passed out through the door which led into the garden.