I suppose--that a woman should have no
regard for the sacredness of your social status. I have no regard for
it. As for your honour"--she laughed unpleasantly--"I've never had it to
guard, Jack. And I'll be responsible for my own, and the tarnishing of
it. I think that is all I have to say."

She walked leisurely toward the door, passing him with a civil nod of
dismissal, and left him standing there in his flower-embroidered
court-dress, the electric light shining full on the thin gray hair at
his temples.

In the corridor she met Naida, charming in her blossom-embroidered
panniers; and she took both her hands and kissed her, saying:

"Perhaps you won't care to have me caress you some day, so I'll take
this opportunity, dear. Where is your brother?"

"Duane is dressing," she said. "What did you mean by my not wishing to
kiss you some day?"

"Nothing, silly." And she passed on, turned to the right, and met Sylvia
Quest, looking very frail and delicate in her bath-robe and powdered
hair. The girl passed her with the same timid, almost embarrassed little
inclination with which she now invariably greeted her, and Rosalie
turned and caught her, turning her around with a laugh. "What is the
matter, dear?"

"M-matter?" stammered Sylvia, trembling under the reaction.

"Yes. You are not very friendly, and I've always liked you. Have I
offended you, Sylvia?"

She was looking smilingly straight into the blue eyes.

"No--oh, no!" said the girl hastily. "How can you think that, Mrs.
Dysart?"

"Then I don't think it," replied Rosalie, laughing. "You are a trifle
pale, dear. Touch up your lips a bit. It's very Louis XVI. See mine?...
Will you kiss me, Sylvia?"

Again a strange look flickered in the girl's eyes; Rosalie kissed her
gently; she had turned very white.

"What is your costume?" asked Mrs. Dysart.

"Flame colour and gold."

"Hell's own combination, dear," laughed Rosalie. "You will make an
exquisite little demon shepherdess."

And she went on, smiling back at the girl in friendly fashion, then
turned and lightly descended the stairway, snapping on her loup-mask
before the jolly crowd below could identify her.

Masked figures here and there detained her, addressing her in disguised
voices, but she eluded them, slipped through the throngs on terrace and
lawn, ran down the western slope and entered the rose-garden. A man in
mask and violet-gray court costume rose from a marble seat under the
pergola and a