ecatingly.

Barnard and Serracauld smiled, and Deerehurst raised his own glass.

"To the next occasion upon which you consent to be my guest!" he said
with a profound and impressive bow.

On the surface, this incident seems scarcely worth recording; yet for
Clodagh it marked an epoch--an epoch not evolved through yielding to
her host's persuasions, not evolved through drinking a single glass of
unfamiliar wine; but evolved through the fact that one item in the sum
of her prejudices had gone down before that potent fetish, the dread of
appearing conspicuous.

With her action, a fleeting shadow of self-distrust fell across her
mind; but she swept it aside, as she had previously swept the memory of
her interview with Gore. Deep within her lay the specious knowledge
that, for her, this bright existence was only transitory--that
somewhere behind the lights and music and laughter lay her own
individual groove, to which she must return like a modern Cinderella,
when the enchanted interlude of brilliant days was ended. And in this
knowledge lay the secret of her greed for joy. Certain of the monotony
to come, she caught passionately at every proffered pleasure.

Ten o'clock had struck before the little party left the restaurant; and
although she had drunk no more champagne, and had refused the liqueurs
that had been served with coffee, her eyes were excitedly bright, as
she stepped from the gondola at the steps of the Palazzo Ugochini.

Mounting the marble stairs with Deerehurst close behind her, she was
filled with an exhilarating sense of confidence in herself--of defiance
towards the world at large. The memory of the afternoon, when she had
stood on the dark terrace and listened to Gore's contemptuous voice,
had left her--or remained only as a spur to her enthusiasm.

The animation--the zest for pleasure--was plainly visible in her eyes,
as she entered the salon, and went forward towards her hostess. And
Lady Frances Hope, looking round at sound of her guest's names, saw
this peculiar expression with a stirring of curiosity.

"Where have you all been?" she asked, as she took Clodagh's hand.

Barnard laughed.

"We are shocking truants!" he said gaily. "We have been dining at the
'Abbati.'"

She looked at him quickly.

"All four of you?" she asked shrewdly.

He smiled.

"You have a suspicious mind, Frances! Yes; all four of us."

Lady Frances laughed.

"No," she said. "I never harbour suspicions. It is Mr