oom, and left
the house.

Romayne and Stella passed through the card-room and the chess-room,
turned into a corridor, and entered the conservatory.

For the first time the place was a solitude. The air of a newly-invented
dance, faintly audible through the open windows of the ballroom above,
had proved an irresistible temptation. Those who knew the dance were
eager to exhibit themselves. Those who had only heard of it were
equally anxious to look on and learn. Even toward the latter end of the
nineteenth century the youths and maidens of Society can still be in
earnest--when the object in view is a new dance.

What would Major Hynd have said if he had seen Romayne turn into one of
the recesses of the conservatory, in which there was a seat which just
held two? But the Major had forgotten his years and his family, and he
too was one of the spectators in the ballroom.

"I wonder," said Stella, "whether you know how I feel those kind words
of yours when you spoke of my mother. Shall I tell you?"

She put her arm round his neck and kissed him. He was a man new to love,
in the nobler sense of the word. The exquisite softness in the touch of
her lips, the delicious fragrance of her breath, intoxicated him.
Again and again he returned the kiss. She drew back; she recovered her
self-possession with a suddenness and a certainty incomprehensible to
a man. From the depths of tenderness she passed to the shallows of
frivolity. In her own defense she was almost as superficial as her
mother, in less than a moment.

"What would Mr. Penrose say if he saw you?" she whispered.

"Why do you speak of Penrose? Have you seen him to-night?"

"Yes--looking sadly out of his element, poor man. I did my best to set
him at his ease--because I know _you_ like him."

"Dear Stella!"

"No, not again! I am speaking seriously now. Mr. Penrose looked at me
with a strange kind of interest--I can't describe it. Have you taken him
into our confidence?"

"He is so devoted--he has such a true interest in me," said Romayne--"I
really felt ashamed to treat him like a stranger. On our journey to
London I did own that it was your charming letter which had decided
me on returning. I did say, 'I must tell her myself how well she has
understood me, and how deeply I feel her kindness.' Penrose took my
hand, in his gentle, considerate way. 'I understand you, too,' he
said--and that was all that passed between us."

"Nothing more, since that time?"

"N