against the generosity of her Napoleonic brother.  In exchange for life’s golden chance of romance she had been given a wonderful veneer of hard brilliancy—­and she hated it!  After a few moments of rebellious introspection she shook her head and rose from her seat, slipping behind the tall marble urn that rose from the end of the bench into the enveloping shadows.  She was seeking a refuge where she might hide and hear the music softened by the distance and she kept walking, lured on by the wildness of the surrounding hills which just now better suited her mood than the clipped hedges.

She found a place at last from which, as one apart, she could look up at the stars and down at the dancers.

There was a larger crowd dancing now than there had been.  Evidently new guests had arrived since dinner.  She was beginning to feel the solace of her escape from other human beings when she became conscious of a white-clad figure approaching her, and gave a low exclamation of annoyance.  Yet something in the manner of the man’s movement indicated that he was, like herself, finding greater pleasure in solitude than in the dance.  It was only when he was almost upon her that she stood out visible in the depth of the shadow.  He halted then and bowed his apology.

“I beg your pardon,” said a voice which struck a vaguely familiar chord of memory.  “I didn’t mean to intrude.  I was just hunting for a spot where I could watch things without having to talk to anyone.”

Mary Burton laughed.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” she assured him, “because, as it happens, that’s why I’m here myself.”

It was too dark for recognition of features, but there was a silvery quality in the girl’s voice which piqued the interest of the newcomer and caused him to deviate from his avowed purpose of self-withdrawal.  It seemed to him that music sounded across a space of years—­music remembered and longed for.

“The dismissal is unmistakable in its terms,” he answered.  “Yet, since I have come a long way, may I not sit here for a moment of rest—­provided I am very silent?”

Mary smiled and then quite unpremeditatedly she found herself inquiring, “A long way?  Where do you come from then?”

“From St. Petersburg,” he enlightened in a casual fashion, and after a moment he added, “to see you!”

“You just said you were seeking a place to be alone and why should you look for me whom you never saw before and whom you can’t see now, for the dark?  You don’t even know what I’m like.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Burton.—­There, you see I know your name.”

The tantalizingly familiar note in his voice puzzled and interested her with a cumulative force.  “I have a very definite idea what you are like.  Not being a poet, I’m afraid I can’t put it into words.”

“But you haven’t seen me!” Her speech became for an instant mischievously whimsical.  “Of course, if you have a burglar’s lantern about you—­or a match I suppose you might.”