They were talking of Mary.  Her introduction to her husband’s friends had been an ordeal for Bob Flippin’s daughter.  But she had gone through it simply, quietly, unaffectedly, with the Judge by her side standing sponsor for his son’s wife in chivalrous and stately fashion, with Mrs. Beaufort at her elbow helping her over the initial small talk of her presentation.  With Truxton beaming, and with Becky drawing her into that charmed circle of the younger set which might so easily have shut her out.  More than one of those younger folk had had it in mind that at last year’s ball Mary Flippin had sat in the gallery.  But not even the most snobbish of them would have dared to brave Becky Bannister’s displeasure.  Back of her clear-eyed serenity was a spirit which flamed and a strength which accomplished.  Becky was an amiable young person who could flash fire at unfairness or injustice or undue assumption of superiority.

The music had stopped and the balconies were filled.  George, in the darkness, was aware of the beauty of the scene—­the lantern making yellow moons—­the golden groups beneath them.  Mary and Truxton with a friend or two were in the balcony adjoining the one where Becky sat with young Paine.

“Isn’t she a dear and a darling, Randy?” Becky was saying; “and how well she carries it off.  Truxton is so proud of her, and she is so pretty.”

“She can’t hold a candle to you, Becky.”

“It is nice of you to say it.”  She leaned on the stone balustrade and swung her fan idly.

“I am not saying it to be nice.”

“Aren’t you—­oh——!” She gave a quick exclamation.

“What’s the matter?”

“I dropped my fan.”

“I’ll go and get it,” he said, and just then the music started.

“No,” said Becky, “never mind now.  This is your dance with Mary—­and she mustn’t be kept waiting.”

“Aren’t you dancing this?”

“It is Truxton’s, and I begged off.  Run along, dear boy.”

When he was gone she leaned over the rail.  Below was a tangle of bushes, and the white gleam of a stone bench.  Beyond the bushes was a path, and farther on a fountain.  It was a rather imposing fountain, with a Neptune in bronze riding a seahorse, with nymphs on dolphins in attendance.  Neptune poured water from a shell which he held in his hand, and the dolphins spouted great streams.  The splash of the water was a grateful sound in the stillness of the hot night, and the mist which the slight breeze blew towards a bed of tuberoses seemed to bring out their heavy fragrance.  Always afterwards when Becky thought of that night, there would come to her again that heavy scent and the splash of streaming water.

“Becky,” a voice came up from below, “I have your fan.”

She peered down into the darkness, but did not speak.

“Becky, I am punished enough, and I am—­starved for you——­”

“Give me my fan——­”

“I want to talk to you—­I must—­talk to you——­”