we could catch a glimpse now and then of Violet dancing with a

beautiful being in a white uniform, and of Rose followed about by
her accepted lover, both of them content with their lot, but with

feet quite on the solid earth.
Celandine was a bit of a flirt, no doubt. She had many partners,

walked in the garden with them impartially, divided her dances, sat
on the stairs. Wherever her yellow draperies moved, nonsense,

merriment, and chatter followed in her wake.
Patricia danced often with Terence. We could see the dark head,

darker and a bit taller than the others, move through the throng,
the diamond arrow gleaming in its lustrous coils. She danced like a

flower blown by the wind. Nothing could have been more graceful,
more stately. The bend of her slender body at the waist, the pose

of her head, the line of her shoulder, the suggestion of dimple in
her elbow--all were so many separate allurements to the kindling eye

of love.
Terence certainly added little to the general brilliancy and gaiety

of the occasion, for he stood in a corner and looked at Patricia
whenever he was not dancing with her, 'all eye when one was present,

all memory when one was gone.'
Chapter XIII. A Penelope secret.

Shortly after midnight our own little company broke up, loath to
leave the charmingspectacle. The guests departed with the greatest

reluctance, having given Dawson a half-sovereign for waiting up to
lock the door. Mrs. Beresford said that it seemed unendurable to

leave matters in such an unfinished condition, and her son promised
to come very early next morning for the latest bulletins.

"I leave all the romances in your hands," he whispered to me; "do
let them turn out happily, do!"

Salemina also retired to her virtuous couch, remembering that she
was to visit infant schools with a great educational dignitary on

the morrow.
Francesca and I turned the gas entirely out, although we had been

sitting all the evening in a kind of twilight, and slipping on our
dressing-gowns sat again at the window for a farewell peep into the

past, present, and future of the 'Brighthelmston set.'
At midnight the dowager duchess arrived. She must at least have

been a dowager duchess, and if there is anything greater, within the
bounds of a reasonableimagination, she was that. Long streamers of

black tulle floated from a diamond soup-tureen which surmounted her
hair. Narrow puffings of white traversed her black velvet gown in

all directions, making her look somewhat like a railway map, and a
diamond fan-chain defined, or attempted to define, what was in its

nature neither definable nor confinable, to wit, her waist, or what
had been, in early youth, her waist.

The entire company was stirred by the arrival of the dowager
duchess, and it undoubtedly added new eclat to what was already a

fashionable event; for we counted three gentlemen who wore orders
glittering on ribbons that crossed the white of their immaculate

linen, and there was an Indian potentate with a jewelled turban who
divided attention with the dowager duchess's diamond soup-tureen.

At twelve-thirty Lord Brighthelmston chided Celandine for flirting
too much.

At twelve-forty Lady Brighthelmston reminded Violet (who was a
h'orphan niece) that the beautiful being in the white uniform was

not the eldest son.
At twelve-fifty there arrived an elderly gentleman, before whom the

servants bowed low. Lord Brighthelmston went to fetch Patricia, who
chanced to be sitting out a dance with Terence. The three came out

on the balcony, which was deserted, in the near prospect of supper,
and the personage--whom we suspected to be Patricia's godfather--

took from his waistcoat pocket a string of pearls, and, clasping it
round her white throat, stooped gently and kissed her forehead.

Then at one o'clock came supper. Francesca and I had secretly
provided for that contingency, and curling up on a sofa we drew

toward us a little table which Dawson had spread with a galantine of
chicken, some cress sandwiches, and a jug of milk.

At one-thirty we were quite overcome with sleep, and retired to our
beds, where of course we speedily grew wakeful.

"It is giving a ball, not going to one, that is so exhausting!"
yawned Francesca. "How many times have I danced all night with half

the fatigue that I am feeling now!"
The sound of music came across the street through the closed door of

our sitting-room. Waltz after waltz, a polka, a galop, then waltzes
again, until our brains reeled with the rhythm. As if this were not

enough, when our windows at the back were opened wide we were quite
within reach of Lady Durden's small dance, where another Hungarian

band discoursed more waltzes and galops.
"Dancing, dancing everywhere, and not a turn for us!" grumbled

Francesca. "I simply cannot sleep, can you?"
"We must make a determined effort," I advised; "don't speak again,

and perhaps drowsiness will overtake us."
It finally did overtake Francesca, but I had too much to think

about--my own problems as well as Patricia's. After what seemed to
be hours of tossing I was helplessly drawn back into the sitting-

room, just to see if anything had happened, and if the affair was
ever likely to come to an end.

It was half-past two, and yes, the ball was decidedly" target="_blank" title="ad.坚决地，果断地">decidedly 'thinning
out.'

The attendants in the lower hall, when they were not calling
carriages, yawned behind their hands, and stood first on one foot,

and then on the other.
Women in beautiful wraps, their heads flashing with jewels,

descended the staircase, and drove, or even walked, away into the
summer night.

Lady Brighthelmston began to look tired, although all the world, as
it said good night, was telling her that it was one of the most

delightful balls of the season.
The English nosegay had lost its white flower, for Patricia was not

in the family group. I looked everywhere for the gleam of her
silvery scarf, everywhere for Terence, while, the waltz music having

ceased, the Spanish students played 'Love's Young Dream.'
I hummed the words as the sweet old tune, strummed by the tinkling

mandolins, vibrated clearly in the maze of other sounds:-
'Oh! the days have gone when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life from morn till night

Was Love, still Love.
New hope may bloom and days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's Young Dream.'
At last, in a quiet spot under the oak-tree, the lately risen moon

found Patricia's diamond arrow and discovered her to me. The
Japanese lanterns had burned out; she was wrapped like a young nun,

in a cloud of white that made her eyelashes seem darker.
I looked once, because the moonbeam led me into it before I

realised; then I stole away from the window and into my own room,
closing the door softly behind me.

We had so far been looking only at conventionalities, preliminaries,
things that all (who had eyes to see) might see; but this was

different--quite, quite different.
They were as beautiful under the friendly shadow of their urban oak-

tree as were ever Romeo and Juliet on the balcony of the Capulets.
I may not tell you what I saw in my one quickly repented-of glance.

That would be vulgarising something that was already a little
profaned by my innocent participation.