omprehensible, mortal my narrow world contained.
When, therefore, I encountered her eyes at the end of the dance, I said
to myself:

"She may not love me, but she knows that I love her, and, being a woman
of sympathetic instincts, would never meet my eyes with so calm a look
if she were meditating an act which must infallibly plunge me into
misery."

Yet I was not satisfied to go away without a word. So, taking the bull
by the horns, I excused myself to my partner, and crossed to Dorothy's
side.

"Will you dance the next waltz with me?" I asked.

Her eyes fell from mine directly, and she drew back in a way that
suggested flight.

"I shall dance no more to-night," said she, her hand rising in its
nervous fashion to her hair.

I made no appeal. I just watched that hand, whereupon she flushed
vividly, and seemed more than ever anxious to escape. At which I spoke
again.

"Give me a chance, Dorothy. If you will not dance, come out on the
veranda and look at the ocean. It is glorious to-night. I will not keep
you long. The lights here trouble my eyes; besides, I am most anxious to
ask you----"

"No, no," she vehemently objected, very much as if frightened. "I cannot
leave the drawing-room--do not ask me! Seek some other partner--do,
to-night."

"You wish it?"

"Very much."

She was panting, eager. I felt my heart sink, and dreaded lest I should
betray my feelings.

"You do not honour me, then, with your regard," I retorted, bowing
ceremoniously as I became assured that we were attracting more
attention than I considered desirable.

She was silent. Her hand went again to her hair.

I changed my tone. Quietly, but with an emphasis which moved her in
spite of herself, I whispered: "If I leave you now, will you tell me
to-morrow why you are so peremptory with me to-night?"

With an eagerness which was anything but encouraging, she answered,
almost gaily:

"Yes, yes, after all this excitement is over."

And slipping her hand into that of a friend who was passing, she was
soon in the whirl again and dancing--she who had just assured me that
she did not mean to dance again that night.

III

A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

I turned and, hardly conscious of my actions, stumbled from the room. A
bevy of young people at once surrounded me. What I said to them I hardly
know. I only remember that it was several minutes before I found myself
again alone and making for the little room into which Beaton had
vanished a