would like his uniform.

There was one person, at least, in the room who made no attempt to
assure herself that she was enjoying the vivid gaiety of these
parti-coloured revels.

Mary Masters, when she had time for solitary thought, found that the
atmosphere of the charming room was full of mockery. For her, the
passionate vibrations of the strained, incessant strings seemed to
breathe the wild complaint of lost souls; the multitudinous tread of
gliding feet, the lingering sweep of silken skirts, the faint, sweet
perfume of exotic flowers, all had a new and strange significance;
the effect of an orchestral fugue wearily repeating the expression
of a frenzied heartlessness, a great unrest.

The girl was completely unstrung. Since Charles had brought her
news, which, after all, had been merely a corroboration, her nerves
had played her false; the balance of her mind was thrown out of
poise; and the fact that she was there at all seemed only a part of
her failing, an additional proof of her moral collapse.

Seated on a low ottoman, in a little recess among the tall palms and
tree-ferns, which lined the passage leading from the ball-room to
the studio, she was startled presently from her reverie by Mrs.
Lightmark, who confronted her, a dainty figure in the pale rose
colour and apple-green of one of Watteau's most unpractical
shepherdesses.

"Not dancing, Mary!" she protested, smiling a little languidly.
"What does it mean? Why are you sitting in stately solitude with
such an evident contempt for our frivolity?"

"Frivolity!" echoed Miss Masters. "I _have_ been dancing, this last
waltz, with Lord Overstock. I have sent him to find my fan. I told
him exactly where to look, but I suppose he can't discover it. He's
not very clever, you know!"

"Poor Lord Overstock! I hope he won't find it just yet and come to
turn me out of his seat. I'm _so_ tired of standing, of introducing
men whose names I never knew to girls whose names I have forgotten,
and of trying to avoid introducing the same people twice over. It's
so difficult to recognize people in their powder and patches!"

"Yes," said Mary slowly, with a kind of inward resentment which she
could not subdue, although she felt that it was unreasonable, "I
almost wonder that you recognised me."

Eve glanced at her, struck by her tone, trying to read her
expression in the dim light, a shadow of bewilderment passing over
her own face and for a moment lowering the brillian