ace to
his, some surprise mixed with the sweetness of her regard. Never
before has he addressed her in such a tone.

"Is it?" she says, gently. "I had forgotten; but of course my card
will tell."

"One often forgets, and one's card doesn't always tell," replies he,
with a smile tinctured with bitterness.

She opens her eyes, and stares at him blankly. There is some balm in
Gilead, he tells himself, as he sees she is totally unaware of his
meaning. Perhaps, after all, she _did_ forget about that tenth dance,
and did not purposely fling him over for the man now beside her, who
is grinning at her in a supremely idiotic fashion. How he hates a
fellow who simpers straight through everything, and looks always as if
the world and he were eternally at peace!

She flushes softly,--a gentle, delicate flush, born of distress,
coldness from even an ordinary friend striking like ice upon her
heart. She looks at her card confusedly.

"Yes, the next is ours," she says, without raising her eyes; and then
the band begins again, and Dorian feels her hand upon his arm, and
Kennedy bows disconsolately and disappears amid the crowd.

"Do you particularly want to dance this?" asks Dorian, with an effort.

"No; not much."

"Will you come out into the gardens instead? I want--I must speak to
you."

"You may speak to me here, or in the garden, or any where," says
Georgie, rather frightened by the vehemence of his tone.

She lets him lead her down the stone steps that lead to the
shrubberies outside, and from thence to the gardens. The night is
still. The waning moonlight clear as day. All things seem calm and
full of rest,--that deepest rest that comes before the awakening.

"Who is your new friend?" asks he, abruptly, when silence any longer
has become impossible.

"Mr. Kennedy. He is not exactly a friend. I met him one night before
in all my life, and he was very kind to me----"

"One night!" repeats Dorian, ignoring the fact that she yet has
something more to say. "One night! What an impression"--unkindly--"he
must have made on that memorable occasion, to account for the very
warm reception accorded to him this evening!"

She turns her head away from him, but makes no reply.

"Why did you promise me that dance if you didn't mean giving it?" he
goes on, with something in his voice that resembles passion, mixed
with pain. "I certainly believed you in earnest when you promised it
to me."

"You believed right: I did mean it