defection.

Three evenings after the events of the last chapter the inviting French
ball-room of the Hotel Mazarin was lighted for the first "Patricians'"
dance of the season. The florist had arranged his last cluster, and the
floor had received its last polishing; the dainty canary draperies were
coquettishly caught up with garlands of flowers, while here and there
slender palms cast their graceful shadows upon the shining floor, and
white and gold woodwork peeped from behind smilax and roses. A row of
waiting chairs around the room seemed to add to the stillness, which was
broken only by the hollow, echoing steps of two managers who were taking
a final glance at the preparations. Soon a jabbering of German, and the
squeak of violins behind the gallery palms, announced the arrival of the
orchestra, while down-stairs by the supper rooms the twang of a
Hungarian cymballo proclaimed the presence of the Tzigan band.
Chattering Frenchmen were scurrying about the tables putting on the
finishing touches, and the usually suave and smirking _maitre d'hotel_
was scolding an unfortunate "omnibus" hurrying upstairs with the punch
glasses. "_Depeche toi, Gustave, ces gens vont venir a l'instant_" he
cried; but though an hour had passed since the time for which the guests
were invited, the ball-room remained deserted.

Down-stairs a solitary woman sat quaking in the ladies' dressing-room,
and her husband braved the patronizing glances of the servants in the
hall. They were from a Western town, and both were wondering what nine
o'clock on the invitation meant. For nearly another hour they sat there,
and then the rustling of a satin dress announced the arrival of a
patroness who had promised to come early to receive. Soon a few men
straggled in, another patroness arrived, and finally a little knot of
women who had collected in the dressing-room mustered sufficient courage
to enter the great, empty ball-room. The orchestra struck up a Viennese
waltz, a couple started to dance, and a few others followed their
example. The fashionable hour had arrived; men, maidens and matrons
crowded in, the room became quickly filled with a talking, laughing
multitude; brilliant colors and bright smiles dispelled the gloom, and a
giddy whirling mass of tulle and cheviot announced that the ball had
opened.

Marion Sanderson was among the late arrivals. She had been unusually
long at her toilette, but the time had been profitably spent, for when
she e