She looked into his face almost appealingly, but knew that all the arguing in the world would not alter his determination. He was so convinced that Patricia Byrne was his true mate, that discussion of the pros and cons was to him beside the question. He wished with all his heart to do his duty to his race, and to remain faithful to his inherited religion, and in this he believed that his sweetheart would help, not hinder him. So the result of the interview was as satisfactory as, under the circumstances, it could be; on this one point it was not possible that mother and son should think alike. Lionel could not make up his mind to tell his beloved of the conditions of his mother’s approval at once: for a short time he wished to enjoy her sweet companionship without the smallest cloud to mar the brightness of their love. He brought her to see his parents, and the Earl dined with them in state, but not a word as to their difference of religion was said by either side. The only one who ventured to object was Mrs. Lowther, Patricia’s companion; but as she occupied a subordinate position, her opinion was of little consequence. Lionel sought an interview with her in private, and won her over in less than half an hour. What Patricia’s relatives would have to say in the matter, however, remained to be discovered. The Countess of Chesterwood, at whose masked ball Raie Emanuel intended to make her _début_, was the widow of Earl Torrens’ nephew. An American by birth, she possessed democratic views, modified in accordance with the exigencies of her position in society. She loved to surround herself with clever people, no matter what their social status, and her house was the resort of many a young literary aspirant or budding musical genius. The Montellas admired her for her shrewd common sense and vivacious manner, and Lionel was certain that in her he and his sweetheart would find a firm ally. He took Patricia to call on her, but she was not at home; and they did not see her until the night of the ball. Her congratulations were offered in the bright way which was one of her most charming characteristics. “I wish you love and luck,” she said. “Luck?” repeated Patricia. “My dear Mamie, you are thinking of the St. Leger. We don’t intend to run a race.” “Luck” was the name of Lady Chesterwood’s one and only racer. The little widow smiled. “Life is a race, and you need plenty of luck to help you steer clear of the ditches,” she replied. “However, let me satisfy your fastidious ear by terming it ‘Providence.’ Mr. Montella, you haven’t asked me for a dance.” Lionel apologised, and took possession of her card. Then he glanced at her costume. “You are an Italian lady?” he queried, in doubt. “I am Dante’s _Beatrice_; rather an assumption, isn’t it! But I am _so_ tired of the conventional fancy-dress people. Besides, my mask will conceal my face until midnight. What made you two choose to represent the Stuarts?”