She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of red
upon her cheeks born of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happy
smile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gown
rest there as if in love with its beauty. It is an old shade made new, a
yellow that is almost white, and has yet a tinge of green in it. A
curious shade, difficult, perhaps, to wear with good effect; but on Lady
Swansdown it seems to reign alone as queen of all the toilets in the
rooms to-night. She looks, indeed, like a perfect picture stepped down
from its canvas, "a thing of beauty," a very vision of delight.

She seems, indeed, to Joyce watching her--Joyce who likes her--that she
has grown beyond herself (or rather into her own real self) to-night.
There is a touch of life, of passionate joy, of abandonment, of hope
that has yet a sting in it, in all her air, that, though not understood
of the girl, is still apparent.

The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up at
Baltimore--who is bending over her in more lover-like fashion than
should be--is still making all her face a lovely fire as she passes out
of sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens--the steps that
Joyce had but just now ascended.

The latter is still a little wrapt in wonder and admiration, and some
other thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon her
fancies.

"I am sorry about that," says he, bluntly, indicating with a nod of his
head the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. There
are no fancies about Dysart. Nothing vague.

"Yes; it is a pity," says Joyce, hurriedly.

"More than that, I think."

"Something ought to be done," nervously.

"Yes," flushing hotly; "I know--I know what you mean"--she had meant
nothing--"but it is so difficult to know what to do, and--I am only a
cousin."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn't, really," says she, a good deal
shocked. "As you say, why should you speak, when----"

"There is Beauclerk," says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry with
somebody, but certainly not with her. "How can he stand by and see it?"

"Perhaps he doesn't see it," says she in a strange tone, her eyes on the
marble flooring. It seems to herself that the words are forced from her.
"Because--because he has----"

She brings her hands tightly together, so tightly that she reduces the
feathers on the fan she is holding to their last gasp. Because sh