and covetous feminine eyes, ardent masculine eyes, followed
her and her lucky partner as they waltzed up and down the deck. Both
tall and graceful, they made a striking couple.

The count held her pressed closely to him as they turned slowly to the
measured time of the voluptuous music. Her eyes were closed and her head
drooped slightly on his shoulder. To him it seemed like a taste of
heaven to hold this beautiful creature in such close embrace, and as he
inhaled the subtle aroma that emanated from her skin and hair, like some
exquisite, unfamiliar perfume, intoxicating in its effect, he wondered
how he could have been such an ass to waste so many precious hours on
Mrs. Phelps.

But Grace was not thinking of the count. He was not the type of man to
interest her. She enjoyed dancing for itself, and she abandoned herself
to it without a thought of the man who might happen to be her partner.
She loved the graceful, rhythmical movement of the waltz, the rapid
whirling round and round which made her heart beat tumultuously, the
languorous music which intoxicated. She loved the luxury of costly
costumes, the odor of beautiful flowers, the sparkle of diamonds and the
careless gaiety and unconsequential chatter of the people of her own
set. In short, hers was purely a sensual enjoyment--not materially
different to that she aroused in the men--but she did not realize it.

"_Ach_, this is divine!" whispered the count. "May I have the next
waltz?"

At that moment a couple brushed past them.

"There's Mrs. Phelps with Mr. Fitzhugh," said Grace mischievously. "She
would scratch my eyes out if she caught me dancing with you again so
soon."

"I care not," replied the German recklessly and ardently. "When I see
your eyes, the world is dead to me."

A compliment of this kind would have pleased most women, but Grace was
accustomed to them. They rather irritated her.

"I'm tired now," she said languidly. "Please take me to my seat."

They joined Mrs. Stuart, who, comfortably ensconced in a corner, was
flirting desperately with Mr. Brown, the second officer, a tall,
handsome man, smart-looking in his full-dress uniform and white gloves.
The count murmured his thanks, bowed, and retired.

"I'm so thirsty!" gasped Grace, sinking into a chair. "I wish I had an
ice."

"Allow me to get you one," said Mr. Brown.

Before she could protest, the second officer had disappeared in the
direction of the saloon, where an elaborate supper