Marie flushed, she knew quite well what he meant; that he must have
known how Micky had once deserted her.

"I understood that Mellowes was in Paris."

Ashton went on calmly.

"At least I was told so by an ... acquaintance of mine--who was
staying there with him."

Marie's eyes dilated.

"Father and I crossed by the same boat as he did," she said with an
effort. "He was alone then----"

Ashton laughed detestably. "Ah, but not afterwards," he said--then
checked himself. "But I forgot. I must not tell tales out of school,
only as every one seems to have learned of his _penchant_ for the
little lady from Eldred's"--he laughed lightly.

Marie stood staring down the long ballroom. The colour slowly
faded from her cheeks, leaving her as white as her frock. She looked
at Ashton, intent on a crease in his glove, and she broke out
stammering:

"How dare you say such a thing! I don't believe you--in Paris--Micky----"

He raised his brows with assumed surprise.

"I'm sorry--perhaps I should not have spoken--but I thought every one
knew----"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it may be a mistake, but I
happen to know the lady in question slightly--through Mellowes--and it
was she who told me.... I am sorry if my carelessness has pained
you--excuse me, I am engaged for this dance."

He bowed and left her standing there, white and dazed.

"I don't believe it! I don't," she told herself despairingly, and yet
in her heart something told her that, for once at least, Ashton had
spoken the truth.

"Our dance, I think," said Micky beside her.

She laid her hand on his arm mechanically; they went the round of the
room once, then Micky, glancing down, saw how white she was and how
her head drooped towards his shoulder.

He tightened his arm a little--he swept her skilfully out of the crowd
and into a small anteroom; he put her into a chair and bent over her
in concern.

"You are not well--what can I do? Can I get you anything?"

For a moment she did not speak, then all at once she rose to her feet;
she clutched Micky by both arms; he could feel how her hands shook;
there was heartbroken tragedy in her brown eyes as she looked into his
face. For once she had forgotten her pride and the indifference into
which she had been drilled for twenty years; she was no longer Marie
Deland, a sought-after and courted beauty; she was just an unhappy,
jealous woman.

"It isn't true, Micky, is it?" she entreated him; her v