Because of his consistent recluseness, foregone to-night for her
pleasure, Carlisle had meant rather to exhibit Mr. Canning to enraptured
eyes than to subject him to a flood of undesired introductions. But
because she did not want people to refer to her as catty behind her
back, some sharing of her honors was inescapable. A few of her dearest
girl-friends, a handful of the more prominent young men, a somewhat
larger sprinkling of the older people: these were all who received the
golden benediction. Evey McVey was of course among the favored few, but
Mattie Allen, as usual so late in the evening, was not to be seen. She
was undoubtedly "off" somewhere, probably high up on the stairs, with
the most interesting man she had been able to attach.

Canning accepted all the introductions with a charming courtesy, but
Carlisle detected beneath his agreeable manner a faint undercurrent of
stoic weariness. The cold weather had lately touched the troublesome
throat: Mr. Canning spoke to-night with perceptible hoarseness. Carlisle
assured him that he had won a permanent place in Foxe's "Book of
Martyrs" (of which she had heard the other day), and invited him to
partake of refreshments, for they had now at last reached the doors of
the dining-room. He declined, as she had done, but accepted a glass of
champagne from a bald-headed Greek who was pulling corks at a small
table near by. On the point of pledging his lady's health, he was
invaded again, this time by resolute Mr. Robert Tellford, who held the
opinion that Carlisle looked an angel this evening, and was long since
addicted to celestial society.

"The wine is excellent," said Mr. Canning, clinking glasses with Mr.
Tellford.

"The rooms are warm," said Robert, in about that sequence.

"People are beginning to leave, I observe," said Mr. Canning.

"Others are just coming in, I note," answered Robert, doggedly.

Carlisle laughed. "To-morrow will be a fine day. You talk like people in
a play. Let's all wish each other a happy New Year...."

"Duty is done," she added later, with a small sigh, when Robert had been
persuaded to remove himself. "We can now give ourselves up to lives of
the grossest selfishness.... Oh, oh, _oh!... How_ would sitting down
appeal to you, Mr. Canning?"

"Ice-water to Tantalus, Miss Heth. And seats are about as probable."

"_Look!_"

She nodded dramatically toward the hall and her sudden discovery: Mr.
Beirne's private lair, presumably; a pleas