"But he is so much nicer than Mr. Huntley," declares Georgie,
earnestly: "and he was my first partner, and I promised him so
faithfully to keep this dance for him."

"He'll never see you in the crush," says Branscombe.

"But I told him exactly where to find me."

"It is the most difficult thing in the world to be anywhere at the
precise moment stated."

"But I should _like_ to dance with him again," declares Miss
Broughton, innocently, being driven into a corner.

"Oh, of course that ends the matter," says Dorian, in an impossible
tone, drawing the pencil with much uncalled-for energy across Mr.
Huntley's name.

Then some other man comes up, and claims the little wilful beauty for
the waltz then playing, and, carrying her off in triumph, leaves
Branscombe alone.

CHAPTER XVII.

"It is the hydra of calamities,
The sevenfold death: the jealous are the
Damn'd."--YOUNG.

Having watched her until the last fold of her gown has disappeared,
Branscombe turns abruptly away, and, passing through a glass door that
leads into the gardens outside, paces slowly up and down the winding
paths beneath the subdued light of countless Chinese lanterns, that,
hanging amidst the foliage, contrast oddly with the cold white
brilliancy of the stars overhead, that

"Rush forth in myriads, as to wage
War with the lines of darkness."

Cold as the night air is, not a breath of wind comes to disturb the
strange calm that hangs over land and sea. Far down in the bay the
ocean lies at rest. From the distance a faint sound of music from the
band comes softly, seductively to the ear, but beyond and above it
comes the song of the nightingale that, resting in yonder thicket,
pours forth its heart in tender hurried melody, as though fearful the
night will be

"Too short for him to utter forth his love-chant,
And disburthen his full soul of all its music."

The notes rise and fall, and tremble on the air. No other sound comes
from the breast of nature to mar the richness of its tone. No earthly
thing seems living but itself. For it the night appears created, and
draws its "sable curtain stained with gold" over the sleeping world.
This nightingale, of all the feathered tribes, is wakeful, and chants
its hymn of praise at midnight, whilst all its brethren rest in
peaceful slumber.

The intense and solemn stillness of all around renders more enchanting
the trills and tender trembles that shake its tiny throat. There